


Constant as the Northern Star

by PrettyThief



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Found Family, Lightsabers, Minor Renly Baratheon/Loras Tyrell, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Rated E for Eventually, Sci-Fi Mashup, Slow Burn, Space Stations, an AU that is so self indulgent, assholes to lovers, if we're striving for accuracy, technically not actual enemies, too much plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2021-04-09
Packaged: 2021-04-19 11:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyThief/pseuds/PrettyThief
Summary: Brienne Tarth does not feel ready to command an entire space station. To make matters worse, the Alliance has assigned to her the most infuriating defense officer she could have (but definitely did not) asked for. The pair of them and the rest of their misfit crew swiftly find themselves mixed up in the reigniting embers of rebellion on the planet Winterfell below. Suddenly the fate of an entire planet, if not the entire galaxy, is up to Brienne and Jaime.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 391
Kudos: 252





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> While this is a sci-fi mashup from a lot of sources, it is mostly inspired by and drawing from _Star Trek: Deep Space 9_. The plot and characters will be different, but the world is similar. As this fic **does not** actually take place in the _Star Trek_ universe, I played around quite a bit with the tech, uniforms, politics, etc. No knowledge of _Star Trek_ or sci-fi is required; this is essentially just a version of Westeros set far in the future.
> 
> Title comes from [A Case of You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6voJjexENok) by Joni Mitchell (and also Shakespeare, but let's be real - Joni's the real MVP).

The sudden wave of heat that Lieutenant Commander Brienne Tarth felt wash over her at the unexpected news was in stark contrast to the cold, dreary office in which she stood. The walls had either never been painted beyond the original grayish color of the material used to construct them or painted to look like it, the shades pulled down over the windows, and the furniture dull metal. But within Brienne, her mind was ablaze with potential, burning with hope she did not dare ever allow herself to feel.

"Ser. With all due respect, I'm afraid I've misunderstood."

"I do not believe you have, Lieutenant Commander." Admiral Stannis Barartheon rose to his full height, his drawn face as set as stone. "The North quadrant space station commonly known as _The Wall_ has completed the process of transitioning from treasonous Bolton rebellion operations back to a Westeros Alliance outpost. You will be the new Commander as the Alliance monitors activity in the area and bolsters relations with the North."

"Ser," said Brienne, trying to muster up all of her courage, "surely there's someone more experienced, more qualified--"

"Are you second guessing my judgment, Tarth?"

"_No_, Ser. I only--why me?"

Admiral Baratheon narrowed his eyes, tapping his fingertips on his polished metal desk as though simply looking at Brienne required all of his mental fortitude.

"You _are_ young," he ground out, "but you come highly recommended. Lieutenant Commander _Renly_ Baratheon wrote the award for your lifesaving service while you were stationed together aboard _The Thorn_."

Brienne could feel herself flush from where she stood, hands clasped behind her back on the other side of the Admiral's desk. She wanted to speak, to tell the truth of her alleged heroism for the Admiral's younger brother. Instead, she stood rooted to the spot, silently cursing what an easy tell she was.

"There is more." He picked up a chrome case from his desk and approached her. His jaw was working and annoyance was writ in the crease between his stormy eyes. "You have been promoted to Commander, effective immediately." He opened the case to reveal a new set of rank insignia, which he wasted no time in affixing to her uniform.

Brienne gaped, though she might have expected it; rank and command typically went together. Still--_Commander_ at just age twenty-eight. It was difficult for her to feel she deserved it but _gods_, did she want it anyway. She wished she had been given some notice, though, so that her father could have been in attendance. But there would be plenty of time to video call him later. Maybe she could even visit; she had been gone from her island home too long.

"Ser, I don't know what to say. This is an honor."

"It is." Admiral Baratheon crossed the length of his office to stand at the window overlooking King's Landing, though he did not lift the shade. "You may select your own core crew from the lists of available officers for each position."

For a moment, Brienne's mind raced with possibilities. Her first thought was of Margaery Tyrell, whom she had known at the Academy before Brienne had gone on to specialize in tactics and Margaery to sciences. She had been the only woman to have ever shown Brienne kindness, the closest thing to a true friend she had known.

"Are you familiar with Senator Tywin Lannister, Commander?"

Brienne frowned and nodded slowly. Of course she was familiar; he was one of the longest-serving senators in the Alliance, not to mention belonging to one of the oldest and wealthiest families on Westeros Prime. The Lannisters could trace their lineage all the way back to Ancient Westeros, when they had been Kings.

"Then you know that his son, Major Jaime Lannister, serves in the Marine Corps."

She did not care for the direction the conversation was heading. There were rumors about Major Lannister throughout Westerosi Alliance Uniformed Service. Terrible rumors, if they were true, and Brienne saw no reason that they would not be. He was not a man she wanted to serve with, especially not within the confines of a remote space outpost.

She nodded once more and waited for the dreaded words, her stomach knotting up at the thought of it.

“Good. He has been appointed your first officer and chief of defense. A small contingent of Marines will be stationed upon the station as well. He will be their commanding officer.” Admiral Baratheon’s lip curled with disdain. “His _father_ has made it plain that this is where his son should serve, and the rest of the Senate has agreed.”

Brienne’s heart sank. She had so been looking forward to this assignment, but the presence of Jaime Lannister would certainly ruin everything.

“Is not Major Lannister perhaps a bit… overqualified for such a position? I do not claim to have his service history memorized, but I would imagine he would be suited to command in his own right.”

Admiral Baratheon affixed Brienne with another hard stare. “The Senate decided,” he said with finality. “Perhaps that is a question best directed toward _them_, or to Major Lannister himself.”

Brienne felt her cheeks pinken at the rebuff.

"Now," said the Admiral, "I must attend a meeting. Captain Seaworth is without, and has agreed to assist you in your transition from his command. You will embark on the morrow. Good day, Commander."

Brienne left the Admiral's office for the brightly lit hallway where Davos Seaworth, her Captain and mentor for the past two years, was posted. She had hoped for time to visit her father on Tarth. Without permission to take even a day of leave, it would be completely impossible. Perhaps once she was settled in to her new quarters aboard _The Wall_, she might be granted time away.

“I like the new hardware, _Commander_.” Davos smiled and flicked the rank upon her chest with a finger that had long ago parted with its fingertips.

She allowed herself a smile in his company. “Thank you, Captain. I am completely in shock. If I recall my history correctly, only a handful of Space Corps officers have achieved this rank before they were thirty.”

“You shouldn’t be shocked. You seem to've been made for command. And I wrote a recommendation for you myself; Admiral Baratheon is an old friend.”

Brienne knew he meant well, but his words only made her feel less deserving. So it had only been the favor of a friend and a brother that had won her such a coveted position.

Davos walked with her though the capital, seeming to want to fill her head with as much as advice as he had left to offer. When they approached her quarters, he clapped a hand on her shoulder and affixed her with the paternal smile she had come to feel such fondness for.

"Do not second guess yourself, Brienne. Your crew will be your family, yes, but _you_ are at the head of it. It doesn't matter whose rank is what, whose job is what--aboard your vessel, you are the commander. Go command. I'll be sure to visit the next time I'm in the North quadrant."

Brienne gave him a thin smile, trying to come across as professional and brave even though she felt none it it. "I won't let you down, Ser."

Davos reached out then and pulled her into a warm hug. "Don't worry about me. Don't let yourself down. Don't let your crew down."

Brienne nodded and said her final goodbyes before slipping inside. Though she still could not shake the feeling that this was all a huge mistake, her confidence in Captain Seaworth remained unshaken. He had taught her well. She sunk into the chair by her front door with a budding determination to be the best commander her crew could ask for. Even Jaime Lannister.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne greets her new crew, some easier to get along with than others.

Commander Brienne Tarth had not known at the outset of the day that would change her life forever that it would, in fact, be the day that would change her life forever. It had begun inconspicuously like any other, for Brienne was nothing if not disciplined and an adherent to a good routine. It was what had carried her through the Academy, where it had been drilled into her head that discipline was born of routine.

Brienne had been a favorite of several of her instructors at the Academy. She had been a devoted student for all of her subjects—from Ancient Westerosi battle tactics, to pre-hyperdrive literature, to cultural analyses of the planets the people of Westeros now inhabited. She had never been late, had always prepared for class the day before, and followed instructions to the letter. She had been a professor’s dream.

Brienne had taken her education very seriously. Selection for the Academy was not easily won, and so she had decided to learn from each lesson as much as she could, even if she did not always catch on as quickly as all of her classmates. Instead, she worked hard for what she knew and what she could do. With each day of her education highly structured, and Captain Seaworth leading by example during her most recent assignment, Brienne had come to value the importance of maintaining a routine.

Presently, the alarm clock on her bedside table was humming her usual five o’clock wakeup call; a powerful Middle Westeros orchestral score composed for an old _Star Wars_ film.

Brienne rolled over on her too-large bed, installed for a previous commander who had come to the station with a wife. Lying in the darkness, she stared up at the ceiling for several moments, blinking sleep from her eyes and considering the day ahead of her. The first days of her command had passed in merciful quiet, running with a skeleton crew until her primary crew could arrive. Even with hyperdrive capabilities, travel from Westeros Prime to the distant planet of Winterfell took as long as two weeks, depending on the ship. Today, though, she would greet the majority of her crew, each scheduled to arrive before dinner.

Her thoughts drifted to Renly Baratheon, who had treated her as a friend during their time together on _The Thorn_. She had hoped… But it seemed like more than she dared dream of, even alone in the quiet dark. Margaery Tyrell and her brother Loras would be arriving too, and Brienne was particularly excited to see her old friend. Once they were on the station, she would be in charge of all of them—a strange prospect. She meant to relish the few hours she had left to just … _be Brienne_.

The first bit of business in each and every one of Brienne’s morning was an hour of exercise. The on-site gym was perfectly adequate, but she craved the outdoors. _The Wall_ was entirely artificial, of course, except for the small garden kept alive purely by the good graces of artificial sunlight. But simulation suites allowed her to visit all of the places she missed, the places she could not go: winding valleys of the Vale, narrow paths across the Riverlands, the golden coasts of the Westerlands, even _home_.

Brienne dressed herself in the quiet of her sleeping chamber, much larger than the suite she had shared as _The Thorn_’s deputy chief of security. She wore a blue tunic under a gray jacket, her commander’s pins affixed to each side of her high collar. Looking in the mirror on the door to her bathroom, Brienne still could not get used to the sight.

_Command_, she thought for the hundredth time, trying and failing to imprint the notion as a fact as she stared herself in the face.

“Commander Brienne Tarth,” she said aloud, frowning when the words still did not sound right.

She heaved a sigh and grabbed her gym bag from next to her dresser on the opposite end of the room. Through the bedroom door was her sitting area, complete with a smaller side room that she used for her office. She scooped up a file containing information on the new additions to her crew and stuffed it into her bag. Flipping the _open_ switch on the control panel by the door, she exited into the hallway.

The station was larger than she had expected prior to arrival: wide and circular with a center hub connected to the outer circular section by walkways like the spokes of a wheel. The commander’s chambers were near the mouth of one of the spokes, allowing for easy enough access to the operations center as well as the plaza. The plaza housed most of the station’s shops, restaurants, and amenities, including the sim suites.

At not quite six in the morning and with the station not fully populated yet, Brienne’s short walk was quiet. The artificial lighting along the walls and ceiling gradually increased, as pink and warm as any sunrise on Tarth’s eastern coast.

Crossroads Cantina had just opened their doors when Brienne arrived at the plaza. The cantina smelled of greasy food and cheap coffee, neither of which interested Brienne.

“Mr. Clegane?” she called, sliding onto a bar stool.

“It’s _Sandor_, I’ve already said.” Sandor Clegane appeared through the swinging double doors that led to the kitchen, wearing an apron and a pencil behind his good ear.

“Right. Sandor.” The man did not seem friendly enough to even have a first name, much less wish to be called by one. “I just need a chip for the sim suite.” Brienne reached into the pocket of her trousers and slapped the appropriate number of coins onto the counter between them.

Sandor peered at her under the lank hair. “Little early, isn’t it?”

“I’m going running.”

“Ah. Mostly people use the sims to get their rocks off.” Sandor smirked when Brienne quickly dipped her head away from his gaze, but he reached under the counter and produced a data stick. “Two hours, Commander. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Sandor was still chuckling when Brienne, bright pink, made her way around the plaza to the row of sim suites. She inserted the chip key and stepped inside when the door opened.

With the stroke of her hand, the bland white room she had entered was transformed into a warm, dense forest of the Riverlands. Her Space Corps uniform was gone and in its place she wore a colorful tanktop and tights. A light rain was trickling onto the canopy of leaves above Brienne’s head and the air smelled of damp earth and plant life. She looked up with a smile as the rain misted onto her cheeks. Her sense of wonder at the accuracy of the sim suites never seemed to fade.

Brienne ran a hand through her hair and took off down the narrow, rocky trail. Her worries seemed to fade into the background noise of woodland animals and the _drip drop_ of rain from the leaves into puddles on the deciduous floor below. For an hour, she wasn’t the commander. She wasn’t an officer of the Westerosi Alliance Uniformed Services. She was just Brienne, running through a warm thicket of old trees, just as she had as a girl. With each springing footfall on the packed dirt she felt stronger, more confident…

Ready.

By the time Brienne had cleaned up and reentered the plaza, Crossroads had picked up and attracted what seemed to be its usual clientele.

“Good morning, Miss Stark.”

“Just Sansa is fine, Commander.”

“Brienne,” she reminded the young woman with a smile, settling herself onto the bench across from her.

“Of course. Brienne. You were visiting the sim suites?” Sansa scooped up a spoonful of eggs from the plate in front of her.

“Yes. I try to exercise every morning.”

Brienne shifted in her seat, hoping that she was not giving away how anxious speaking with Sansa Stark made her feel; other women had never been especially kind to her. But in the few days that they had been acquainted, the pretty young redhead had been nothing but friendly. It was the kindness that always made Brienne uneasy, but she was determined to _try_.

“I’ve never used the sim suites. Life on Winterfell was fairly simple. But,” Sansa grinned then, holding her fork aloft and arching an eyebrow suggestively, “I think if I did, I’d want to slip into a Jane Austen novel.”

Brienne huffed a small, genuine laugh. “You like Middle Westeros literature, Miss—_Sansa_?”

“Oh, I _adore_ it! Such struggle! Such romance!” Her laugh rang like a bell at her own dramatic affection. “I would not have thought you the type to know Jane Austen, to be honest, Brienne.”

She frowned, but quickly schooled her face into neutrality. “I like such books as well as the next woman,” she said carefully.

Truthfully, there was little Brienne loved more than Middle Westeros books and films. She would not have been able to lie that the likes of Mr. Darcy or Han Solo were _not_ her greatest daydream, had Sansa pressed the subject further. Fortunately, she was given a reprieve from such admissions by the arrival of Crossroads’ second proprietor.

“Morning, Brienne,” said Asha Greyjoy with a lopsided smile. She didn’t wear an apron like Sandor, but leather pants and a top that hugged her waist. “Let’s see. If day four is anything like days one through three then it’s… Large peanut butter protein shake, extra peanut butter, and a bowl of strawberries. That right?”

Brienne agreed and gave her thanks.

“Wish me luck getting the bloody Hound to actually _do_ something in the kitchen,” Asha grumbled as she walked away.

Brienne turned her attention back to Sansa. “So they’ve always managed Crossroads?”

Sansa’s face darkened. She took a moment to answer, peeling the crust from her toast first. “More or less,” she affirmed with a chilly crispness that had not been in her voice previously.

Brienne watched Sansa curiously, waiting for her to continue, perhaps to tell a story or provider her with some background. But Sansa did not carry on, only ate her breakfast in what was becoming a very awkward silence. Brienne averted her eyes then, all at once acutely aware of the differences between them. Sansa was tall, but still shorter than most men—just the way a woman was preferred. Her ivory skin was delicately pretty with none of Brienne’s ropey strength underneath. Their looks, Brienne knew, were only the tip of the iceberg.

But Sansa Stark held a special place on _The Wall_. She was the only of-age member of the Stark family and sister to the Boy King, and so she was the Alliance’s liaison to Winterfell. Brienne would have to power through whatever gaps or canyons separated them.

She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I can’t imagine how difficult all of this has been for you and your family.”

Sansa glanced up and for just the briefest moment, Brienne thought she saw a flash of something there—anger?—but it was replaced in an instant with a sad smile. “My father trusted Roose Bolton. Our families went back _ages_. And now… I know Ramsay has Bran. I _know_ it. Where else would he be?”

Brienne nodded sympathetically. She wanted to reach out and cover Sansa’s slender hand with her own, but she knew a hand as large and calloused as her own would never be able to provide the sort of comfort Sansa or anyone else deserved.

Privately, Brienne thought it unlikely that the younger Brandon Stark had survived the War for Winterfell. Robb, the eldest of the Stark children, and both their parents had been killed in the years-long conflicts. Underaged Arya and Rickon Stark had been sent to live with their uncle on Riverrun 2, her mother’s family’s home world. Brienne had learned that Bran was meant to leave with them, but had gone missing in the night before they were scheduled to depart. To anyone who asked, Sansa would insist that sometimes her little brother liked to wander. She never seemed to notice the pitying looks she received in return for her half-hearted explanations.

Brienne did not want to pity Sansa, though; she knew enough of that herself.

“We’ll find him,” she promised, managing a smile.

Asha returned with her breakfast and Brienne realized how hungry she was. She had ran herself nearly to exhaustion, not quite a part of her normal morning routine. It had been difficult not to feel intimidated by the day that lay ahead of her, her mind racing with thoughts of the experienced crew she would be receiving shortly. The longer and harder she ran, the more in control she felt—until she realized that her legs felt like jelly and her lungs were on fire.

As Sansa wiped her hands clean on a napkin and Brienne plucked a strawberry out of its dish, a sudden scuffle on the other side of the plaza caught Brienne’s attention.

“Hey, P-P-P-Payne!”

She glanced over her shoulder, brow creased into a frown.

Three broad-shouldered teenaged boys were grouped in a half-circle outside Cassel’s Clothiers. They were dressed similarly in smart trousers and solid-colored shirts with all of their buttons affixed—more than could be said for the fourth, smaller boy they were group around.

“Payne, what are you doing here? Think you’ll trade in that shirt you’ve been wearing since the rebellion started?” The tallest boy shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned smugly at the younger boy.

“N-n-no. I’m just… On my way to c-class.”

“Class, huh? They finally going to teach you how to talk?”

Brienne had heard more than she needed to. “_Enough_!” she shouted, pressing her palms flat to the table and turning toward the boys.

She strode over to them, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise when she realized Sansa Stark had also crossed the plaza, her arms folded across her chest. The three well-dressed boys’ faces fell at once, reminiscent of androids programmed to synchronize their movements.

“Commander!” said the one nearest her. “We, uh, didn’t see you.”

Brienne narrowed her eyes and glared. “Clearly.” She placed her hands on her hips, just above her pistol belt.

“We were just saying hello to Podrick,” one of the boys offered with a smile that Brienne knew too well. A memory attached to another such smile flashed before her mind’s eye: Ronnet Connington holding her hand. She couldn’t see then what had belied Conngington’s innocent expression, but she could see it now in this boy.

Before Brienne had a chance to say anything else, Sansa took a step forward, raising an accusatory hand toward the boys and the pointing in the direction of the hallway that led to the classrooms.

“Go. _Now_.”

Brienne continued to maintain a glare until they had made their way down the plaza. She then turned her attention to the boy by the shop door. He looked to be around twelve or thirteen with dark hair and eyes and was perhaps a little too

_A war orphan, _she realized sorrowfully. _The Wall_ housed a good number of refugees: people whose homes had been destroyed, whose careers had been ended, whose families were still missing or worse. To Brienne, the saddest of the lot were the dozens of children without parents, ranging in age, class, and background but all under the care of Septon Derrial. On the few occasions that Brienne had come across the septon, he’d seemed harried and exhausted, and she’d wondered how he managed caring for and teaching the children all on his own. She’d quietly added the children and the septon to the top of her list of problems to sort out.

“Are you alright?” She stepped toward the boy, trying to decide whether to place a hand upon his shoulder or if her show of empathy would make him feel worse.

He nodded, looking at the ground.

“What’s your name?”

“Podrick, Ser.”

She smiled at the boy’s accurate usage of the Alliance’s gender-neutral honorifics; too often she’d received an outdated _ma’am_. “Did you know those boys?”

He bobbed his head up and down again, his brow furrowed and both hands clinging to the strap of a worn-out bookbag slung over one shoulder.

“Podrick,” she said gently, “are they always like that?”

He shrugged, finally looking up. “I have a stutter sometimes,” he said as if it were the obvious answer to the question.

Brienne’s heart swelled with affection inside her chest. “You’ll let me know if they continue to bother you?”

“Oh, Ser,” Podrick began, appearing every bit a frightened animal with eyes wide as saucers. “I can look after myself.”

“Of _course_ you can,” said Sansa, beaming down at him.

Brienne gave the boy a rueful smile of her own. “Go on to class, Podrick. Look after yourself.”

After the boy had left, Brienne turned her head to Sansa to find the other woman already looking at her, a thoughtful look in her eyes.

“Thank you for helping him.”

“It’s only what anyone would have done.”

“No,” said Sansa softly, “it isn’t.”

The rest of Brienne’s day was a flurry of introductions. She was relieved when Margaery pulled her into an enthusiastic hug, apparently just as excited to see Brienne as Brienne was to see her. She brought with her a younger brother, Loras, who was a bit standoffish. She hoped he wouldn’t be trouble to work with. Theon Greyjoy was newly promoted to lieutenant commander and gave off a blasé attitude that seemed to hide how excited he actually was to be the station’s communications officer.

The best part of her day was seeing Renly again. His blue eyes shined when they landed on Brienne and when he wrapped his arms around her, she closed her eyes and relished in the fact that he still smelled of spring flowers.

“You haven’t aged a day, Brienne!” he sang as they made their way from the docks back to the plaza where the rest of the crew was having dinner.

Brienne blushed, even as she realized his compliment was both a neutral one and one that she wished was not true. She still felt entirely too young for her position. But Renly was a good doctor and a true friend. Perhaps surrounded by such people, eventually she would feel more at ease.

They were halfway through their celebrations when Brienne’s comm pinged with an incoming call. She plucked the speaker from the device and popped it into her ear—a privacy feature she greatly appreciated over the loud speaker function she had been afforded on previous ships. Too many times while on _The Thorn_ she’d been subjected to snippets of inappropriate conversations between Hyle Hunt and his mates. One time in particular... But she didn't want to think on that.

“Commander Tarth,” she announced into the microphone, a mix of pride and anxiety enveloping her as it did every time.

“Commander, this is Petty Officer Cleos Frey. There’s a, erm, situation at Doc Two that you might want to come see to. I think it might be a sensitive matter, if you get my meaning, Ser.”

Brienne glanced around at her companions, still laughing over their drinks.

“It’s been very nice spending the evening with you all, but I’m afraid duty calls. I’ll see you all at zero seven hundred in the morning,” she said as she stood from their table and made her way across the concourse to the elevators that would lead down to the web of docking stations.

She heard the commotion at dock 2 before she saw it. On the other side of the door to the dock, two men were yelling at one another.

“…_if your father heard about this…!_”

Brienne sighed and rested the palm of her hand upon the metal door, steeling herself. This was not how she had hoped to end her night, not when the rest of the day had gone so well. She had a feeling she knew what she would find but, pressing the button to open the door, she still hoped she was wrong.

Brienne would later reflect that although what happened next had felt like _hours_ at the time, it had all in reality happened over just a few minutes.

An extravagant private ship had landed in the middle of the hangar: gleaming, curvy, and sleek in a way that reminded Brienne of liquid gold. It was the sort of ship that she had only ever seen docked in the capital on Westeros Prime. Most people didn’t have enough money to buy a space-faring ship of any kind, much less something as flashy as the one in front of her.

The airstairs were let down from one side and at the bottom of them two men seemed to be squaring off. The first she recognized as Petty Officer Cleos Frey, the young man who managed the docks in the evenings: weak-chinned and not very impressive to look at, a stark contrast to the man he stood next to.

The second man was in fact unlike anything Brienne had ever seen. His bronze Marine Corps uniform fit him in a way that suggested it had been specially tailored to hug his well-muscled body. Golden eyebrows were knitted together over eyes as green and sharp as a cat’s. She felt a twinge of irritation at the deliberately out-of-regulation style of his hair: appropriately tapered on the sides but overly long and curly on top with several wide, lazy curls sweeping down his forehead.

Instead of considering further how impossibly good-looking Major Jaime Lannister apparently was, she resolved to have a word with him about his hair as soon as the situation permitted. They might technically be of equivalent rank—but this was _her_ vessel.

“_What_ is going on?” she demanded, positioning herself between the two bickering men.

“He’s drunk,” said Petty Officer Frey in a low whisper that was not quite low enough for only her to hear. “_In uniform_.”

Lannister snorted. “My cousin takes his job too seriously. And I had so hoped for a tender reunion, Cleos. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I get the distinct impression that you _do not_ have a kiss for me? Not even a hug?” As the docks manager floundered for words, Lannister turned his whole body to face Brienne. She misliked the glint in his predatory green eyes. “Who even _are_ you?”

Brienne scowled, her spine instinctively straightening at Lannister’s open and obvious condescension. Her name was stitched into the breast of her uniform and her collar bore her rank. It was impossible he had missed it.

“_Commander_ Brienne Tarth.”

With such a supercilious man in her face, Brienne suddenly felt every ounce of confidence about her new title she had been trying all day to achieve. She had found herself under the heel of men like this Major Lannister in the past—on _The Thorn_ and at the Academy before that. She had outperformed _them _at every turn, too, although quietly so. But Brienne could see her opportunity to take control; this one was not a man she was going to end up beneath.

“Commander!” He laughed breathily, and Brienne was certain she could indeed smell liquor on his breath. “You know, it’s curious, you look somehow like the _largest_ man I’ve ever seen but the same time—a little girl playing dress up.” He reached out and flicked the rank on her collar then, as Davos had done the day Admiral Baratheon had pinned it on her, but with none of the warmth of the old Captain. “Are you _sure_ you’re old enough to be wearing this?”

Brienne grabbed his wrist, quick enough that even this battle commander with all the fabled instincts of Goldenhand the Just did not move out of her grasp in time. She jerked his hand away from her collar roughly, pressing it back into his own chest. She felt a flicker of pride at the flash of surprise in his eyes.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” she spat, pushing away from him.

“Jaime…” said Cleos Frey anxiously from near the airstairs. “Perhaps this isn’t the best start?”

Lannister barked another laugh but kept his eyes locked on Brienne’s, the hand she had grabbed now resting on a slender hip. “I was perfectly friendly until this woman—you _are_ a woman, Commander?—came at me like a great white bear.”

Brienne bristled. “You will _not_ speak to me this way. Petty Officer Frey will assist you in getting to your rooms. You will report to duty at zero seven hundred in the morning. And if you step another pretty, polished toe out of line, I will personally see to it that you’re removed from this assignment and sent to the darkest, dingiest hole on Skagos. Do we understand one another, Major Lannister?”

His face was now solemn and serious. “Perfectly, Commander.” His expression then quirked up into a smirk and he swiveled his head toward Petty Officer Frey. “You heard her call me pretty, right?”

Brienne took a deep, calming breath as she made to leave, wishing to be around her first officer for not a minute longer. “Good night, Cleos. Call Lieutenant Commander Loras Tyrell if he acts out.”

It was nearly midnight by the time Brienne had been able to relax enough to begin to drift off into sleep. She was used to snide remarks about her appearance and she knew some men would always take issue with having a woman in charge of them. But Jaime Lannister—with his good looks, state of the art ship, and extensive history as one of the best Marines in the service—seemed to have wedged himself into the deepest recesses of her mind where her basest insecurities had long ago taken root.

Just as she had convinced herself that he was not any better than her and she would not waste any more of her time or energy thinking about him, her eyes flew open. She’d been so distracted by his bizarre behavior that she had forgotten to record her usual evening message home to her father.

So much for routine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm toying around with characters' ages and age differences. Just roll with it, if you will :)
> 
> Any thoughts are appreciated, as are questions, and I always respond to comments. Thanks for sticking around!


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Brienne struggle to _stop_ getting on one another's nerves, Podrick begs Brienne to teach him how to wield a lightsaber, and the Boltons make a very suspicious appearance.

In the days that followed the disastrous first meeting with her new chief officer of defense, Brienne made every attempt to distance herself from him. She kept busy in setting up operations for the various members of the crew. Each individual seemed to think their specialty was most important and, therefore, most deserving of Brienne’s time.

Renly was disappointed in the quality of bandages the medical bay had been equipped with and on his first day had marched up to Brienne and not left her alone until she sat down and signed off on his requisition form for a better (and more expensive) alternative.

Margaery had pestered her about whether she _really_ had to wear the duty uniform when her patients would feel more at-east with civilian clothing.

Theon Greyjoy had managed to catch her at the most inopportune moments possible to ask twenty questions at a time about the computer system he was assigned to keep running—which she knew little to nothing about, anyway.

Even Loras had followed her around for an entire day pointing out potential security breaches until she had lost her nerve and told him to please go away.

Jaime Lannister did nothing.

That first morning, he was at the control room before even Brienne, who prided herself on her early starts. When she entered, he had his boots propped up on a console, sitting behind a screen displaying the station’s shield information with his back to her.

She stopped short at the sight of him, a groan building in her chest. “What are you doing here?”

He did not turn around, but instead took a long pull from the mug he held in his hand. His tone was clipped when he spoke. “I work here.”

“It’s six-fifteen.”

Report time had been set for seven o’clock, and Brienne was not accustomed to being beaten to her post.

Jaime Lannister chuckled his acknowledgement, still apparently intent on his screen. “Oh, _and_ you can read a clock? You really must teach me sometime.” He craned his head around then to reveal a cutting smile that did not reach his eyes. They held a dangerous look to them that made Brienne uneasy—and her first officer should not make her feel _uneasy_.

“Why are you being so bloody difficult?” she grumbled, tossing her bag onto the ground by her chair.

“_I’m_ just sitting at my station, trying to do my job. _You _walked in with guns blazing.” He spun his chair around to face her then.

“I only asked why you were here so early,” she reminded him, overcome with the urge to stand tall and hold her ground.

“My apologies, then. Would you prefer that I was late? Perhaps you’d enjoy it if I … _disturbed your morning_.” The smirk he wore was smug, self-assured and grossly irritating. The sight of him made something inside of her snap.

“Alright, Major, let’s get something straight,” she said resolutely, moving to lean over him with one hand on the back of his chair. “I know who you are. Don’t think that because of this—” she pressed a finger to his chest where _LANNISTER_ was embroidered on his red shirt in golden thread, “—that you can get away with whatever you like aboard this station. I’ve heard the stories. I know your reputation. You—”

He interrupted her with a low, sultry tone. “Hmm, Commander, you’re very close. Are you trying to kiss me? Completely inappropriate, of course, but if you insist—”

“For the last time: you will not speak to me like that, you absolutely vile man!”

Brienne wanted to kick herself as soon as the words were out. It was rare that she found herself in a situation that escalated to anger so quickly, and she hated that she had forgotten herself in her choice of words. Like him or not, the Major was her second-in-command and of an equal rank, and she had to respect that. But still… something about the defense officer seemed to get under her skin in the worst possible way.

Jaime snorted at her words, standing up to face her directly and breaking her grip on his seat with his shoulder along the way.

“_Vile_. Right. Would my commander insist on a full confession? Very well, I’ll oblige.” His voice was low, dangerous velvet. “Major Jaime Lannister, should likely be at least Lieutenant Colonel by now. Murdered the king and got away with it because he’s a _senator’s son_. Bodyguard to prince Rhaegar Targaryen at the time of his assassination. Rumors of a fantastically obscene relationship with his sister. I’m sure there’s more, but I’m afraid I’m counting on you to fill me in.”

Jaime’s face was inches from hers, a glint of wrath hidden in his eyes, easily overlooked for the devil-may-care smirk he still wore. It seemed inappropriate to Brienne; the man was clearly a monster and it seemed dishonest that he could still look so fair.

“Are you still drunk?” she managed in barely more than a whisper.

His face softened to mere agitation. “What? No. Of course not.”

“So you _were_ drunk when you arrived last night?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“On my _own_ time, on my _own_ ship.”

“You were in uniform!”

“It isn’t a crime to have a drink in uniform.”

“Yes, _a_ drink. You were drunk, and the docks manager saw you!”

“The docks—you mean _Cleos_? What’s he going to do? Flail his flabby little arms at me? Tell his mummy?”

“Major Lannister, I don’t care what your personal differences are. Petty Officer Frey is the docks manager and your coworker. You will show him respect.”

“The Alliance, the Services, all of _this_—” he gestured vaguely around the room, “—means that much to you, does it? You’re really some kind of idealist, kid.”

“My name is not _kid_.”

Jaime threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Of course it isn’t. Brienne, correct?”

“My rank and name will suffice, if you know what is good for you.”

He barked a laugh. “Are you threatening me, _Commander_?”

She closed the distance between them, determined to maintain control of the situation. “You mentioned a close relationship with your sister. I could have your communications shut off. No messages in or out. Is that something you like for me to arrange, Ser?”

He puffed out his chest with a deep breath, no doubt readying himself to hurl more insults and further attempts to provoke her. But then he pulled away from her as if he had been shoved. He straightened his back and lifted his chin, his expression unreadable.

“No. It isn’t.”

Jaime’s acquiescence had hardly felt like a victory; his inexplicable distaste for Brienne had been palpable. The next several days passed in stony silence between them, with Jaime saying as little to her as his position would allow. He reported to her with only the most pertinent of information, and he asked so few questions that it became irksome. So irksome, in fact, that she had gotten to the point of preemptively providing explanations for every detail of the ship and the defense systems he was in charge of. To Brienne’s amusement, he seemed to especially hate that, having taken to darting out of her line of sight when he saw her approaching, seemingly just to avoid further descriptions of information he already knew.

When she and Jaime were not intentionally pressing one another’s buttons, Brienne carried on with her regular routine. The crew seemed to be adjusting, and everyone aboard was settling into a new normal. For Brienne, her favorite time of day was still the mornings, when she could use the simulation suites like a shot of caffeine. Some days she would run, others she would time herself on an obstacle course. But her favorite activity was sword fighting.

Although she had once taken the sport very seriously, of late it was only something of a guilty pleasure. While at the Academy, she had been the undefeated captain of the fencing team. She had done most of her training in private—because the bulk of her training had been done with simulated lightsabers from the _Star Wars_ movies of Middle Westeros. It was not a secret she wanted the entire Academy knowing.

Her swordsmanship was something she had brought with her to _The Thorn_, typically only training with AI in the sim suites. The one notable exception had been during a mock Ancient Westerosi melee during one weekend of morale and recreation. Hyle Hunt and his friends had been shocked into silence when the big, ugly Brienne had beaten them all.

It was a surprise one morning to find a nervous-looking orphan boy hovering outside her usual sim suite, well before the rest of the station had awoken.

“Podrick?” She stopped in front of him curiously, hands on her hips.

“Ser! I was just—” he trailed off, frowning.

“Yes?”

Podrick Payne bit his lip. “I wondered if I could—if I could come with you.”

Brienne stared at him for a moment, her brow knitted. “Come with me?”

“You t-t-train in there, don’t you?”

“I do.” _How much attention has this boy been paying me?_

“I would like to train too.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised; few people had ever sought her out like this. “Pod,” she began gently, tilting her head to one side and frowning, “I’m training in case I need to fight for my life—or for yours, or someone else’s on the station. It isn’t just for fun.” It was true, even if she did not carry a sword—just the exercise of the fight was enough to count as training as far as Brienne was concerned.

The boy nodded with what seemed to be understanding, but pressed on as though determined to be brave in his request. “I would—if it please you, Ser—I would like to have that kind of training too. The b-b-boys at school—”

He was looking up at her with large brown eyes, made all the more large and pitiful by his thin, malnourished face.

Brienne sighed, shifting her weight. “It won’t be easy.”

“I know.”

“You could be hurt.”

“I won’t complain.”

Brienne could feel herself soften. “Alright, Pod. But the _second_ that you do, it’s off with you, understand?”

Podrick grinned and nodded enthusiastically, and Brienne allowed him to follow her inside the suite.

In only the span of a few seconds, the featureless simulation room came to life with the sound of waves gently crashing onto a sandy beach. Brienne could feel the sun upon her skin, as warm as though she were really there. The ground beneath her feet was rocky, but further up leveled out to a vibrant meadow, the crisp scent of the freshly shorn grass mingling pleasantly with the salty air from the sea. Leaning against an ancient rock smoothed by time and embedded in the sand were the two metallic hilts to what Brienne knew ere the closest thing to real, genuine lightsabers that she would ever lay her eyes upon.

She moved toward them, her hand running over one. It was an intimately familiar model that she had been using since girlhood, when Galladon had first shown her the sim suites on the ship he had briefly served on. It had only been fun and games for her, back then.

“What _is_ this place?” came a small voice of wonder from behind her.

She spun around to see Podrick looking up at the evergreen trees that lined one part of the shore, pushing far off into the distance and creating the illusion of a neverending forest. His eyes fluttered closed as the wind blew through his mousy hair, a content little smile on his face. Brienne realized that he had likely never experienced anything like this on either his home planet of Winterfell, or on the space station he now called home.

“Tarth,” she replied quietly, hesitant to interrupt his moment. “This is the far east coastline of my home island on Westeros Prime.”

Podrick turned toward her then, gesturing toward the hilt of the lightsaber in her hand. “Is that your sword?”

Brienne smiled, and it occurred to her that she had had so few causes for smiling lately; what a welcome feeling it was.

“Something like that. It’s from a very old movie I used to watch with my brother.”

It was rare that Brienne would even allow herself to think of her brother, but twice already he had come to mind, and now she had brought him up to this boy she barely knew. Perhaps it was just this boy, though, who had no one and was looking up at her with an excited, expectant look that she recognized well.

“Have you ever seen a lightsaber, Pod?”

He shook his head, eyes wide.

Brienne flipped the device over in her hand once, twice, and a third time. She ran a calloused thumb over the intricacies of the design, so artistically rendered for a simulated object. It wasn’t real, and it never would be, but that did not stop her feeling a real connection. Her thumb grazed the activation lever, and at once a blinding blue light cut through the early light of dawn.

“This isn’t a toy, Pod. It also isn’t _real_ and it can’t actually hurt you, but it’s important that you train as though it is and it can. Do you understand?”

“Y-y-yes, Ser,” he breathed.

Brienne twirled the saber in casual circles, reveling in the fluidity of the motion, the way the humming beam of light seemed to become an extension of her arm. Glancing carefully at Podrick, she tossed him the saber in her other hand, still switched off.

He caught it with a grin of triumph.

"Very good. Now, try to stand how I stand."

The boy was more awe-stricken than he was ready to properly learn, but Brienne could not help but feel impressed by his determination. He treated the weapon with the respect and deference it commanded, as though it were real, and he seemed to want to hear what Brienne had to teach him. Toward the end, Brienne even let him take a few clumsy swings.

“You’re very slow,” she told him honestly, “but you’ll get there. If you would like, we can meet here perhaps once per week and I can help you learn. Eventually maybe we can move on to proper fencing or Ancient Westerosi swordsmanship.”

Before the boy had a chance to respond with more than wide and eager eyes, Brienne’s comm beeped in her ear.

“_Commander Tarth_,” came a man’s voice over the tiny speaker, “_there’s some questionable activity between _The Wall_ and Winterfell. You’re needed at ops._”

Brienne glanced at Podrick, tossing her lightsaber onto the ground. “Next week. Same time. Now off to school with you.”

When she reached ops, it was once again herself and Jaime Lannister. Part of her wondered whether he had called her there as a prank of some sort, but he wasn’t smiling.

“Major.”

“Commander. Don’t fret, I’ve summoned the rest of the crew as well. No chances of anything improper happening.”

She ignored his jape and instead glanced at the screens where two large, ugly ships were on full display. Just below each wing sat rows of torpedoes.

"They're armed. They aren't allowed to be armed."

"No kidding."

Brienne opened her mouth to respond, but the door slid open to reveal most of the rest of her crew, yawning and appearing to have recently gotten out of bed.

"What's going on?" asked Renly, draping himself across a chair in the middle of the room.

"Bolton warships in Winterfell airspace," she responded tersely.

Renly's eyebrows shot up. "That's very bold, isn't it?"

"Very stupid," Jaime corrected, now standing next to her in front of the display screen.

"What are our options?" asked Margaery, hands on the hips of her green civilian dress and brow furrowed.

"We go after them," said Sansa at the same time Jaime said, "we talk to them."

Brienne said nothing as the pair of them looked at one another with seemingly mutual distaste.

"They can't be reasoned with," Sansa argued after a beat.

"I agree," said Loras from over Renly's shoulder. "The Boltons are known for their aggression and—"

"I _know_ what the Boltons are known for," Jaime sneered.

"Major,” Brienne began nervously, “according to Westerosi Alliance Resolution One-Five-One-dash-Two, the presence of ballistic weaponry in neutral territory should be considered an act of warfare.”

Jaime nodded and folded his arms over his well-muscled chest. “So the lot of you think that the most reasonable decision right now is to—what, preemptively strike? Would any of you care to explain how that would help the situation?”

Truthfully, the last thing that Brienne wanted to do was strike first, but her crew seemed to wholeheartedly disagree. She did not want to begin to navigate their first bump in the road with divisive decisions, but what Jaime Lannister was saying made more sense than she cared to admit aloud.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one known for rash decisions?” Sansa snapped, glaring across the room at him.

When he spoke next, Jaime fixed his green eyes intensely on Brienne. “Surely you realize how completely unfair it is to assume _everything _you might hear about me is true.”

“Easy, easy, everyone. Let’s think on this.” Margaery was surreptitiously easing herself between Jaime and Sansa, as though afraid one might soon attack the other.

Jaime gave an exasperated huff and turned his attention back to Brienne. “Why am I here?”

Brienne blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“_Why_ am I here?”

“Pretty sure we’ve all been asking the same question, mate,” Renly mumbled, making Loras snigger like a schoolboy.

“Shut _up_, you two,” Margaery growled.

“You’re here to fulfill your obligations as the officer in charge of the defense of _The Wall_, as assigned to you by the Senate, in their capacity as directors of the Westerosi Alliance Marine Corps—”

“Alright, alright. Don’t quote the entire statute at me, for the love of all the gods. I’m here for defense, we can all agree?”

No one moved as Jaime glanced around the room.

“So, no objections, then. In that case, I have a suggestion, if the commander would be so kind as to allow it?”

“By all means,” Brienne said, an edge to her voice she wished he did not have the power to provoke from her.

“As the defense officer aboard this station, I would suggest _letting me do my goddamn job_.” His face, a moment ago so light he seemed to be taking nothing about the situation seriously, had turned righteously thunderous. His sharp cheeks were suddenly rosy with anger, his mouth a hard line, and the glint in his eye more rage than mischief.

Without waiting for further instruction, he strode across the ops room to the communications console, all but shoving Theon Greyjoy out of the way to select the appropriate channels.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” Sansa complained as Jaime picked up the receiver and began to speak into it, his eyes burning into her like a challenge all the while.

_This squabbling is going to get us all killed_. Brienne desperately wanted to intervene, but it not only seemed to be too late, she also knew that she had to give him the opportunity to either sink or swim. She could fix it—she and the crew could fix it, if Jaime’s plan was unsuccessful. Their shields were newly installed state-of-the-art technology from Westeros Prime, and she was fairly certain they could withstand a couple of torpedo attacks. It was still not a risk she preferred to take, but she felt she had no real options.

“Sansa, Major Lannister is the chief officer of defense and the head of Marine Corps forces aboard this station. We have to let him handle this.”

Sansa spread her arms wide, an exasperated look on her face. “You don’t _have_ to do anything! This is your station, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Brienne said sharply, “it is.”

Sansa looked like she wanted to say something else, but thought better of it, as she only nodded and cast her eyes downward.

“I’ve got them,” came Jaime’s voice.

He sounded more serious and in-command that she had yet heard him, apparently enough to make every head turn his way. He was leaning with both hands on the communications console in front of him, intent on the screen which now showed two men inside of an unfamiliar, dark and dull spaceship.

Brienne moved toward him, standing at his side in front of the console.

“This is Commander Brienne Tarth, of the Westerosi Alliance Space Corps, calling from the space outpost, _The Wall_. Please state your business.”

There was a pause wherein the two men glanced at one another, and likewise Brienne exchanged a purposeful look with Jaime.

“We’re on our way to Moon Cailin, orbiting just south of here.”

Jaime scoffed. “What business does a Bolton ship have on a backwater moon with a full array of torpedoes? You do realize Winterfell airspace is under Alliance protection now?”

The smaller of the men, pale with an unsightly appearance, cleared his throat. “There’s a decommissioning zone there. We’re headed to dispose of the weapons. Will there be anything else?”

Jaime raised his eyebrows and shot Brienne a sideways look of deference.

“No. That will be all.”

The video went blank, and Jaime reset the channel before turning to Brienne.

“Do you believe them?” he asked, quietly enough that only she could hear.

She glanced toward her crew, a cluster of curious faces.

“No. Do you?”

He grinned, though she could not for the life of her understand what was humorous.

“No, kid, I don't.”


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the sighting of Bolton spacecraft in an area they should not have been in, Brienne, Jaime, and the rest of the command team make their way to Winterfell to investigate suspicious activity on the ground. But the visit only leads to more questions and an injured crewmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the first battle/action sequence I've written in a long time. Hopefully it is easy to follow and makes sense! If not, please feel free reach out and let me know how much better I could be. Ha!
> 
> As usual, this is not beta read. And also as usual, it probably should have been.

“I have two brothers. My middle name is Rupert. And our commander saved my life once.” Renly was holding up his glass from his place on the sofa, a lopsided smile resting upon his face.

“Everyone knows you have two brothers.” Margaery rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know you and I know you have two brothers.”

“Alright,” he shot back with some annoyance, “so that’s a truth, then. Which is the lie?”

“Renly _Rupert_ Baratheon...” Loras tested the name, nodding his head contemplatively.

Brienne said nothing, only sat silently in the chair furthest from the crew’s games that the lounge area could offer. She held a glass of wine in her hand, but an hour into the evening and so far it had still only been for show. It was all she could do to prevent the painfully familiar intrusive thoughts about Renly taking over her every thought. And now he was _talking about her_ and she knew her entire face must be pink with embarrassment.

“Commander Tarth must know the answer,” said Jaime Lannister from across the room, where he leaned against the wall, nursing nothing more than a glass of water.

“That would be cheating,” she replied crisply, even as within she was silently pleading for her heart to stop hammering in her chest.

“My apologies; I would never intentionally impune upon your pristine character.”

“Can the pair of you please not do that for just… just _half an hour_?” It was Petty Officer Frey who spoke this time, his watery eyes darting between Brienne and the defense officer. Privately, Brienne did not even know who had invited him to the crew get-together; she had found that she did not much care for him outside of working hours.

Jaime only chuckled at his cousin and took a sip of his water.

“Which one is it, then, Renly?”

He was grinning, his eyes more blue than green as he allowed them to travel from face to face in the dimly lit room. “Rupert _is_ an absurd name,” he conceded.

“I think we have to have the story now. Commander?”

Brienne frowned and took a gulp from her glass to buy herself a moment to respond.

“I’m afraid it isn’t my story to tell,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt.

“Well!” Renly exclaimed, suddenly jumping to his feet. “In that case, I would be more than happy--”

“_Greyjoy to command. Command, this is Lieutenant Greyjoy._”

Mercifully, their comms seemed to have all gone off at once, sparing Brienne the mortifying ordeal of having to explain her so-called heroics to half the crew.

In the operations room, Theon Greyjoy was standing at the long table in the middle of the room, swiping a finger across a tablet with an uncharacteristically solemn look on his face. He lifted his head when the command team entered.

“There’s been a message from the Admiral,” he began, hesitation coloring his tone.

“Yes?” Brienne asked, joining him at the table to look at his tablet.

“Rumors.” Theon’s voice was husky, his dark eyes wide.

“We all love a good drama, Greyjoy, but would you _please_ get on with it? I have no desire to be here past my bedtime.” Brienne snapped her head around to glare at Jaime, who only offered her a half-hearted shrug from the latest wall he had found to lean himself against.

Theon’s face darkened but he said nothing else, only clicked a finger against his tablet until Stannis Baratheon’s monotone was playing through the speaker:

_“Begin transmission. This is Admiral Stannis Baratheon. Mind the four day delay in communications between _The Wall _and Westeros Prime; this information may already be outdated. Word has reached Uniformed Intelligence of possible illicit activity on Winterfell. I will remind you that your present mission includes stifling any hint of rebellious acts. I expect a thorough investigation, resolution of the problem, and a thorough report. Signing off.”_

“Gods, he's like an android, except more mechanical,” Renly murmured, clapping Loras Tyrell on the shoulder with a wry smile.

“Aye, your brother, the teeth-grinding robot." Jaime offered a smirk as he met Renly's eyes.

"That's really enough, both of you," Brienne warned. She straightened, placing her hands on the back of the chair. Calling the shots still did not feel natural. "We'll sleep on this information for the night. And then first thing in the morning we'll take the transporter down to Winterfell to conduct an investigation. I'll need all of you. Greyjoy, you'll stay behind to man the transporter and keep us informed of activities on the station." Brienne bit her lip for just a second, hoping she was making the right call. "Dismissed."

As everyone filed out, Jaime Lannister hung back, an odd look in his eye, the sort she had grown over the last few weeks to greatly mislike. Perhaps he was again feeling that his toes had been stepped on as defense officer. She was too tired for it.

"_What_?" she snapped.

The glint in his eye seemed to now light up his face, curling the corners of his lips upward in an infuriating smile. Brienne's eyes were ready to roll at whatever he had to say, her fists beginning to clench.

"Be more confident when you talk to them, kid," was all he said in a secretive whisper, before turning away from her and following the others out the door.

~~~

"This place is absolutely freezing. Why didn't you warn us that this place is absolutely freezing?" Renly had the hood of his coat thrown over his head and his arms crossed over his chest as they trekked through a light covering of snow.

"Did you expect a planet called _Winter_fell to be warm?" Sansa called over her shoulder with an incredulous laugh.

"I don't think Lieutenant Commander Barartheon ever considers anything.”

Under her own hood, Brienne smiled privately at Loras’s joke. Renly was a good man; she knew that much for certain. His intentions were always noble, even if he did have a tendency to flippancy. If anything, most people seemed to find his easy smiles charming. She was lucky to count him among her friends, but even she could see when he was being ridiculous.

“Do you think anyone’s home?” asked Margaery as Sansa directed them toward a cottage towards the end of the town they had transported to.

“She’s always home.”

“_Lady Sansa!_” cried the wrinkly little woman who answered the door. Her arms went around Sansa’s midsection in a tight hug. “I had feared--”

“I know,” Sansa replied solemnly, pulling away. “Nan, I’m working with the Alliance up at _The Wall_. This is Commander Brienne Tarth, and most of the rest of the command crew--Renly Baratheon, Loras Tyrell, his sister Margaery Tyrell, and Jaime Lannister.”

Nan huffed and mumbled as she allowed them all across the threshold, “a Baratheon and a Lannister on _my_ doorstep… Never thought I’d live…”

When everyone was gathered awkwardly inside the very cramped cottage with the when of old straw and ash in their noses, Nan settled herself into a rickety wooden chair beside a frosty window and gazed up at them. Brienne thought she looked a little wary, and wondered at how receptive the people of Winterfell actually were to their presence.

"Now. What brings Alliance spacemen to my little corner of the universe?"

Sansa smiled softly and positioned herself in the only other chair in the room, across from their host. “Well, Nan, we received word that there might be … _trouble_ in the area. You’re always informed; have you heard anything? Seen anything?”

Nan leaned back in her chair and peered out the window, where tufts of snow were gently piling up along the outer ledge. She sat that way for some time, long enough that Brienne was beginning to worry that she had forgotten they were all there, crowded around her fireplace waiting for answers.

“Do you know anything?” Loras asked with agitation lining his voice.

Renly elbowed him in the ribs, but he was grinning. Brienne gave them both a scowl, but Nan only bowed her head slightly.

“Things have been strange,” she finally told them, looking at Brienne in a way that made her skin prickle oddly. “The rebellion in and of itself was strange. The Boltons never had love for the Starks, but they had been loyal to the crown for generations, going back to Westeros Prime, before we left for the stars, when there was just the one planet called Planetos. Long before then, the Boltons were Stark men.

“It has been strange, even since old Roose was killed, and King Eddard and Queen Catelyn, Prince Robb--well, King Robb, wasn’t he?”

Sansa sucked in a breath and Brienne saw her close her eyes for only a second, but she said nothing as Nan pressed on.

“The Boy King, little Bran Stark, he must be out there somewhere, ain’t he? No one’s seen him or the bastard Bolton since it all ended. Most think they’re both dead, but I… I ain’ts so sure.”

“That’s all very interesting,” Jaime Lannister drawled, firelight dancing upon his cheekbones and making his face appear hollower than it usually did, “but have you _seen_ anything?”

Brienne opened her mouth to reprimand him for his impatience, but Nan was answering him before she could: “I’ve not seen a thing.” She smiled. “But others have. There’s a parish just north of here, an hour’s ride by carriage or a little more on foot. They had some troubles … last week, if memory serves. And then… well, I am told of… _strangeness_ in the winter village just to the east.”

Brienne nodded, although she could not make sense of what was going on from Nan’s words. She could think of only one solution.

“We split up,” she said, turning to face the group. “Margaery, Lieutenant Tyrell, and myself will go to this parish. Major Lannister, Sansa, and Lieutenant Baratheon will visit the winter town. Are everyone’s comms functioning?”

With nods of affirmation and some grumbling from Renly, they made their way outside, back into the cold and swirling winds. Brienne gave them instructions for interviewing the locals in their area, to keep their guard up, to radio in if anything even seemed like it _might_ go awry, and to reconvene at the transporter in their current village at the end of the day. As she spoke, she made a conscious effort to keep her tone professional and _commanding, _as it should be, some part of her hoping Major Lannister would take notice and stop smirking like she was inferior every time she attempted to take charge.

But as they parted ways, all he had to say to her this time was, “Much better. Maybe you’ll get it next time.” Then, leaning in closer, “try not to get them killed.”

She was still silently cursing his name as they trudged northward. The winds had calmed somewhat, and the snow had ceased falling, and so they had all finally been able to let their hoods fall back onto their shoulders.

“You’ve put together quite a crew,” Margaery was saying as they trudged along the narrow paved walking road.

“With some help,” said Brienne at once, “Admiral Baratheon had his recommendations.”

“I very much doubt he chose _me_.”

Brienne smiled. “No. You have me to thank for all of this.” She gestured with a hand toward the dirty snowbanks on either side of the road, the half-frozen mud puddles, and rows of barren trees.

“It isn’t so bad! There’s good potential for my services here.”

“You should start with Lannister,” Loras grumbled, knocking the tip of his boot against a rock, sending it crashing into the sleet-filled ditch.

Margaery shot her brother a heated look. “_Loras_. Major Lannister’s mental health--the wellbeing of any of your crewmates--is not a _joke_.”

He shrugged. “You brought it up.”

She said nothing else to him, turning her attention instead to Brienne. “Much has changed since last we saw one another.”

Brienne nodded and shoved her hands in the pockets of her parka. “It has. I--I never expected to be _here_ so soon.” Her face heated as she said it, loathe to call attention to her status.

“I’m not at all. You were the best in our class.”

She could feel even her scalp and shoulders growing hot as her blush only deepened. “All I did was work very hard. It gave the _impression_ of being the best.”

Margaery and Loras both laughed at that, but Margaery threw her arm around her companionably. “I won’t press it further, even if it’s true. But I _will _ask whatever happened with you and Hyle Hunt? He seemed quite smitten.”

Brienne instinctively straightened, her body tensing even as they walked. “Lieutenant Hunt and I served together on _The Thorn_. There was never anything there, so nothing could have ‘happened.’”

Margaery _hmm_ed contemplatively, but it was Loras who spoke. “You served with Doctor Baratheon on _The Thorn_, then?”

Brienne braced herself for the questions that were sure to follow when she nodded her head.

“He seems like a very good man. Would you say so?”

Her blush returned nearly as quickly as it had gone. “He is.”

“Oh _no_, I know that look!”

“No, you don’t.”

“What look?” Loras asked from the side, his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“There is no _look_!” Brienne shouted, her hands rising into the air in exasperation.

Margaery chuckled. “Alright, alright.”

Silence followed for several minutes wherein Brienne tried desperately not to think of Renly Baratheon _or_ Hyle Hunt. _Why did I even ask him to be a part of this crew_? She wondered miserably. But she knew the answer: Renly was good, even if his presence often times threatened to drive her mad.

“Major Lannister is not too terrible to look at,” Margaery said next.

“Perhaps, but in order to look at him one would have to be in the room with him, which truly _is _awful.”

“Oh, he isn’t all _that_ bad, is he?”

“He showed up drunk and since the moment I met him has been nothing but rude and insulting.”

“I find him rather charming--for a Kingslayer.”

“Perhaps you should have _your_ head examined.”

Fortunately, it was then that they found themselves upon the little parish Nan had told them of. The handful of cottages surrounding the small, red-bricked temple were all dark and shuttered, so Brienne knocked upon the door of the temple itself.

They waited for a decent amount of time before Loras grew antsy and knocked upon the door again, heavier than Brienne had.

“Can I help you?” came a man’s voice from the other side of the door.

“My name is Commander Brienne Tarth. With me I have Lieutenant Commander Margaery Tyrell and Lieutenant Commander Loras Tyrell. We only ask for a moment of your time.”

She could hear the sound of several bolts unfastening before the door cracked open to reveal a portly, balding man in red robes.

“Thoros,” he said cautiously, holding out a hand which Brienne shook. “And you’ve come at rather a bad time.”

“I’m sorry. We don’t mean to intrude--”

“You’re not intruding,” Thoros said at once, “but I believe they will be back.”

“They?”

Thoros nodded, opening the door just wide enough to step out and close behind him. Brienne caught brief sounds of the parishioners on the other side of the threshold, equal parts curious and concerned that the entire parish seemed to be inside.

“_Boltons_,” he whispered.

Brienne exchanged a look with Margaery before pressing a finger to her comm. “Major Lannister, this is Commander Tarth.”

A beat and then, “_Major Lannister here. Go ahead._”

“Meet us at the red temple to the northwest of your location. Possible impending Bolton activity.”

“_You got it, kid. Lannister out._”

“What’s been going on?”

Thoros spread his hands in front of him. “I don’t … know, exactly. The Boltons are supposed to be _gone_, aren’t they? Lord Roose is dead. Lord Domeric is dead. The bastard boy is likely dead too. And Winterfell is supposed to be folding into the Alliance. Shouldn’t all of this be _over_?”

Brienne offered the Red Priest a thin, rueful smile. “Yes. It should be. But you’re suggesting it isn’t?”

“Aye. Last week, a group of men raided the village. Broke into homes, threw my people around, stole goods and food that we simply do not have to spare. It ended when a house was burned down, mother and son inside.”

Brienne’s heart seemed to sink to her stomach. “These were Bolton men? You’re sure?”

“There was a man with them … I’d seen him before… I--I wasn’t always a priest. In the early days, I was a soldier, same as most men here. He stood out, even underneath those silly cloaks they were wearing, with a bent back and a horrible smell about him.”

“You remembered a man from his _smell_?” Margaery asked with a laugh.

“You would too, if you ever had the misfortune to smell this one. He reeks.”

“Did any of them communicate? Do you know what they wanted?”

“The crooked one only said they would be back, and then they just … disappeared.”

“The disappeared?” Loras asked. “Like on a transporter?”

Thoros scrunched up his face with annoyance at the young man in front of him. “No. They were there one second and gone another. _They disappeared_.”

There was silence between the four of them for some time, the weight of Thoros’ words hanging in the air around them like the vapor from their breathing. No one had the technology for that. Not the Alliance, not Winterfell at its height, and certainly not the Boltons. It must mean something, but Brienne had no idea what.

“Do you have any idea what they might want? Why they were here?” Brienne asked, noticing the rest of the command team walking up the path toward them.

“I can’t be sure.” Thoros was peering out at the three approaching Alliance crewmen. “But I think it’s pretty clear they were looking for something … or some_one_.”

Brienne fidgeted, uncertain what her next move should be. She could not just leave the parishioners in a state of fear, but they were only six of them and they were only armed with a laser pistol and a dagger apiece. Perhaps she could have Jaime call up to the station for a squad of his Marines to come down--

She did not have time to think on her plan of action long, because at that moment a group of people in dark cloaks seemed to appear from nowhere around the corner of the temple.

“GET DOWN!” she heard someone in the distance--Jaime?--shout, but it was too late. Brienne had vaulted over the railing and Margaery was pushing Thoros inside the temple.

“Look after them!” Brienne called as Loras joined her, unfastening his pistol.

In a moment, Jaime, Renly, and Sansa were by their sides, a healthy distance between themselves and the statue-still men in cloaks--each of whom had a blaster raised in their direction.

“We’re with the Westerosi Alliance!” Brienne and the crew had taken cover some hundred yards from where the men had appeared, behind a low garden wall. “We come in peace!”

“Be sure to tell them you only want to talk next,” Jaime said with a roll of green eyes from where he was crouched next to her.

“I _do_ only want to talk!”

He laughed. “Of course you do.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She could feel color rising in her cheeks in spite of the cold.

But before he could respond, a jet of red light went over their heads.

“Oh _fuck_,” Renly said, dropping on the ground momentarily before he popped back up, his pistol held in a shaking hand.

Jaime and Loras sprang up at the same moment, pistols held out in front of them

“Aim right, I’ll go left!” Jaime shouted to Loras, who only nodded as he crouch-walked his way to the other end of the wall. “Stay in the middle. Watch those two,” he commanded to Brienne next, gesturing to Sansa and Renly with his thumb. His eyes blazed with a life Brienne had not seen in him before, as though he had been only sleeping, but now his body was ablaze.

She didn’t need him to tell her where or how to fight, but knew now was not the time to argue. _Let me do my job_, he had said to her when the Bolton ships had arrived. She had chosen to trust him then, and they had lived through the ordeal rather painlessly.

The men in cloaks, perhaps a dozen of them in total, were advancing and widening their ranks as they did so, moving to envelop them in a half-circle they would only be able to retreat backward from. Brienne glanced over her shoulder, but saw nowhere they could back into cover. They were already upon the last house in the parish, and the portion of the road lined with trees was some ways away.

There was nothing. All they could do was make a stand.

“_What do you need me to do_?” Sansa was asking. She held a pistol in her hand, and Brienne realized she was not even sure whether the young woman truly knew how to use it.

“Can you aim? Do you know how to shoot?”

“I think so. My father--” Sansa swallowed and looked pained for a moment before taking a deep breath. “_Yes_.”

Brienne fired off a shot, hitting one of the men square in the chest with the laser blast. He bent over double before he crumpled and fell. None of his comrades seemed terribly concerned as they continued moving forward.

“We only want _him_!” rang out a strange, raspy voice from the advancing enemy.

He was answered with a shot to the head and Brienne glanced around to see the shot must have come from Jaime.

“We don’t give a shit _what_ you want!” Jaime shouted back at them, squeezing his trigger at the same moment Brienne did. Their shots landed at the same time, taking out the middle and middle-left attackers at once, their bodies colliding into one another as they fell.

The others were shooting, but nothing was landing. Fortunately, the cloaked men were having no luck either. Brienne knew it was too little too late for the realization that her crew clearly needed more time at target practice.

“Where is he?” came another voice, also quickly silenced by Brienne’s own pistol this time.

Before anyone could say or do anything else, a strangled scream rang out along their wall.

“_Loras!_” Renly was moving toward him in an instant, seeming to suddenly care very little about the shots of lasers flying over their heads.

“We don’t have anyone!” Sansa screamed, panic clear in her voice even as she squared her shoulders and seemed to want to be brave. She ducked down below the wall and shook her head at Brienne. “I can’t do this.”

“You can!” Brienne told her.

It didn’t matter, though.

“They’re… They’re gone.”

Brienne glanced up at Jaime, who was now standing up straight with the hand holding his pistol dropped down to his side. He looked down at her, his overly long curls damp with sweat and brow knitted together.

“We have to get Loras back to _The Wall_!” Renly said, kneeling over the security officer. “It’s only his arm, but he needs proper treatment right away.”

Brienne nodded and opened the channel on her comm to call Margaery to bring help in getting Loras to the transporter back in town. She then called Theon to let him know they would need assistance soon with transporting back up to the station.

As they waited on Margaery to come with a cot to lay Loras upon as they carried him, Jaime leaned against the wall next to him, his pistol hung back into the holster slung across his hips where it belonged.

He was looking at her again.

“That was terrifying,” she admitted in a quiet voice.

“Yeah,” he agreed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You were good, though.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him, waiting for the other foot to drop, but he didn’t seem to have anything else to say. In fact, she almost thought he sounded _genuine_. She still couldn't trust him, but she could be honest with him.

She cleared her throat and looked away. “As were you, Major.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne is introspective and takes one step forward and two steps back with Major Lannister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, real life got weird but I'm back on my bullshit now, haha. This is a relatively short update and is more about deepening character relationships than plot, so I hope the wait isn't a terrible let-down. Thanks for coming back for another round!
> 
> Friendly reminder that any/all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Two days after the ambush on Winterfell, Brienne was beginning to find sitting behind a desk to be tremendously dull. Her thoughts continuously shifted toward the men who had tried to kill them, and the men they had killed. She had realized after the fact that Loras had shot one as well, but at the time it had seemed like it had only been her and Jaime, working as a tandem.

She had been slowly coming to terms with the fact that the defense officer was, well, _peculiar _at best. Her initial opinion of Jaime Lannister had indeed been formulated based on the success of his command in the Marine Corps. He was good, that much was no secret to anyone in the Services. Good with a pistol, good with his men, good even behind the controls of a ship. Given the _rest_ of his reputation, from his arrogance to the business with the king and the prince to the rumors of the relationship with his sister—to Brienne his skills seemed to be a waste. He was a Lannister; his loyalties would always lie with his family. No matter what they appeared, the Lannisters had been interested only in their own success for generations.

The thought was almost a sad one. How much good he could do with the prowess she had seen from him if he only _cared_.

But instead, he had chosen to show up reeking of whiskey, insulting her, and casually throwing his worst deeds at her feet with no hint of remorse. She had been prepared then to have him reassigned, and truthfully her mind had not yet changed. But each day since the first he had seemed less like an _arrogant_ fool and more like a _confident_ fool. To Brienne, it was all very deeply confusing. His bold, quickly-plotted actions seemed to negate the impetuous indifference the man exuded. How could someone simultaneously seem to care so little, yet act as though he cared so much?

Brienne sighed and settled her pen back into its holder on her desk.

Thinking about Major Lannister and the conflict he invoked within her was quite a bit too much for one morning, and was beginning to give her a headache. So she tidied the desk, stood, and locked the door to her quarters behind her as she left. 

She still had plenty of work to do, and normally she might work through lunch without noticing. But the rest of her crew weighed heavily on her mind, and she knew where she needed to go.

Someone could have been killed, and Loras had actually been injured. She couldn't help but feel responsible, even though the hooded people, whoever they actually were, should not have had access to laser pistols. Such weaponry was strictly kept in the hands of Alliance officers. Anyone on Winterfell, least of all—a planet that had only recently begun talks of entering the Alliance—should by rights have never even _seen_ a laser pistol. She did not like the fact that she had no real idea what was going on; they would have to be far more cautious going forward.

The med bay felt quietly alive when Brienne arrived. The doors slid open at her touch, and she hovered just inside the doorway, appreciating the familiar steady beeping of the monitors, the clinking of tools in Renly’s hands, the slightly acetic and medicinal scent of the place.

Renly's back was to her, the forest green fabric of his medical corps uniform stretched tight over his shoulder blades and tapering at his narrow waist. He was sitting on a stool next to the cot where Loras was stretched out in a thin hospital gown. He appeared to be asleep while Renly ministrated to his wounds.

Brienne leaned against the doorway and watched him work, apparently oblivious to her presence. His fingers were gentle where they cleaned the healing wound on Loras's shoulder. One hand rested lightly on his forearm while the other held a cloth that he rhythmically moved from a basin of PyGel to the wound. From there, he dabbed at Loras's injury with an almost surprising amount of care.

Deep down, it made Brienne’s heart ache to see how good he was with Lieutenant Commander Tyrell, a man Renly had known for only a few weeks. Soothing and precise, an almost loving touch. Brienne had never seen such in any other doctor. It had been what first drew her to him, back on _The Thorn_. His manner with the men on board seemed to put them all at ease. It was absolutely why she had chosen Renly for their present assignment. She certainly _liked_ him as a person, but in her eyes, as a physician he could not be beaten.

He spun his stool around just then, toward the tray his tools rested upon. As he did, he tilted his head up and met Brienne's eyes with a familiar easy smile.

"Morning, Commander."

She managed to keep her face neutral as she moved closer. "Good morning, Doctor. How is he?"

Renly glanced back down at the security officer, his smile softening as he did so. "He should be right as rain in the next day, day and a half. The PyGel works quickly." 

“Good,” Brienne said quickly. “That’s good.”

Renly was looking at her expectantly with glittering blue eyes, and Brienne suddenly felt so flustered she knew her face must be flushed. A terrible look for a commander, and she was certain he had no idea of the effect he had upon her. Surely she must love him, as lonely and tragic as such a thought was to her. His kindness was everything she imagined she might want from a partner, even as a man like Renly Baratheon was as unlikely to return her affections as a man like Jaime Lannister was to win them from her.

But she was not here to think about Jaime Lannister.

“Lieutenant Commander—”

“Renly,” he reminded her.

“Renly,” she repeated uneasily, “I just wanted to thank you. For… For Lieutenant Commander Tyrell.”

He chuckled. “You owe me nothing, Brienne. Only doing my job.” He looked back down at the soundly sleeping Loras, that same look of—_pride_? Brienne could not quite place it—smoothing his already soft features.

“Pardon me,” came a voice from across the room. “Lieuten—erm—Renly… I only wondered if I might duck out for lunch?”

Brienne glanced at the young man who had spoken. He wore the rank of a junior officer and a green medical corps uniform similar to Renly’s, although his fit nowhere near as attractively; he was stockier with a hesitant look to him. His dour face was familiar from crew introductions, as was the name _Martell _stitched in gold upon the breast of his tunic, but Brienne did not think she had seen him outside the medbay.

Renly waved a hand towards the young physician. “Yes, yes, Quentyn. Go on.”

Once Quentyn had disappeared through the med bay doors, Renly turned his attention back to Brienne. "Strange kid. Bright. But kind of a total bummer to be around all day."

Brienne raised her eyebrows; she would never speak so plainly of her subordinates. But Renly smiled again and the thought dissipated.

She was considering making her exit, having sufficiently observed that Loras was well and in good hands and unsure of any other pretense to talk to Renly. But just as she was about to move, a stifled groan met her ears.

“Loras?” Renly spun on his stool to crane his head over the security officer, fingertips just brushing his forearm.

Loras tilted his head back and winced, curling his fingers into fists before forcing open honey-brown eyes.

“Hey,” he said groggily, looking up at Renly with the hint of a smile.

Renly peered back down at him with a matching expression, and Brienne felt suddenly as though she were an intruder on a very private moment. Seeing the two men smile at one another, as though aware of nothing else in the world, seemed intimate in a way Brienne could not quite understand. They had known one another no more than six weeks, and yet they seemed to have become true friends in such a short amount of time. It was not something Brienne had ever experienced—a quick and meaningful bond; Margaery had practically dragged her kicking and screaming into their friendship. And there had been no men in her life, not really.

_Perhaps Galladon…_ she thought before quickly banishing the path her brain was attempting to take. She did not care to think of her brother.

When Renly and Loras still did not acknowledge her again, she bid them good afternoon and made her way to Crossroads Cantina for lunch.

Once at the Crossroads, she slid into a table near the bar and greeted Asha as she came near.

“Can I—”

“—just have a salad please?” Asha mimicked.

Brienne scowled. “_No_,” she countered against her perceived predictability. “I think I’ll have a … a cheeseburger.”

“A cheeseburger?” Asha was giving her a disbelieving look from where she hovered next to the table.

“That’s what I said.”

“Do you even know what comes on a cheeseburger?”

“Yes. Of course I do.”

Asha nodded. “Right, so one cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato, and ... peanut butter?”

“Not funny.”

“Stop harassing the customers, Greyjoy!” barked Sandor’s voice from behind the counter.

Asha only laughed. “You’re no fun, Commander.”

“Nonsense,” an amused voice called from behind her. “She’s plenty fun.”

Brienne did not need to turn around to know Jaime Lannister was the owner of the voice. He seemed to always be nearby lately, and only part of the time did it seem his attention to her was at all related to work. She groaned as he settled into the seat across from her.

“Observe,” he said with mock propriety. He leaned his curly head toward her, eyes like a glinting pair of stolen emeralds and a smile as sharp as Valyrian steel. “_Cock_,” he purred, his tongue popping deliberately against the roof of his mouth on each _c_ in the word.

“Oh for the gods’ sake,” she murmured even as heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

Asha grinned. “I’ll just put this order in and leave you lovebirds to it.” She gave them a wink and left in the direction of the kitchen entrance.

“Major Lannister, I will have you know—” Brienne began with as much dignity as she could muster, but he cut her off, raising his hands in surrender.

“A joke between friends, Commander. Hardly worth the reprimand we both know you don’t actually want to write up.” He tilted his head to the side. “Or _do_ you want to write it up? Gods, I bet you love to fill out a form.”

“I do _not_—” she took a calming breath. “Why do you constantly antagonize me?”

He placed a hand over his heart. “Me? I’m just having a laugh. _You _are the one who follows me around making sure I know how to do my job even though I very clearly _do_. If that isn’t antagonism…”

“Forgive me for trying to ensure the continued functioning of my space station.”

“_Our_ space station.”

“You’re not the commander.”

“But you need me.” He smiled innocently and batted his long, golden lashes.

Brienne fought the urge to roll her eyes and instead affixed him with a pointed glare. “Did you need something, or are you strictly here on the business all seven hells?”

Jaime cleared his throat and straightened himself in his seat. “The Boltons…” he dropped his voice and glanced around, then carried on when he was sure no one was near enough to hear, “something isn’t right.”

“Well, no,” she agreed, finding it difficult to meet his fierce gaze even when the subject migrated into the realm of professionalism.

“What do you think it is?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, once again reluctant to trust that a man like _him _would genuinely ask after the opinion of someone like _her_. Jaime had led half a dozen successful victories on Pyke, on Casterly, and one on Dorne that had been considered unwinnable; had been famed fresh out of the Academy for his skill in the captain’s seat of a ship; had won more shot tourneys than anyone else in the Alliance; had maintained an extensive resume even in the aftermath of Aerys and Rhaegar Targaryen’s deaths under his watch.

_And I have so little to recommend me for this position, yet here I am with one of the most accomplished officers in the Alliance anticipating answers to his questions._

“I think we can’t let this go. They had blasters, Major. Laser weaponry has not been around long enough for even the Starks of Winterfell to have had access to it, much less the _Boltons_.”

Jaime nodded thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair just enough for his crimson uniform top to stretch alluringly over his broad chest and shoulders. His objective physical appeal was absurd in light of the sort of person he actually was.

“Right. So what does that mean for us?”

She blinked. “Us?”

Jaime quirked an eyebrow. “The team? Here at _The Wall_?”

Brienne huffed a laugh in spite of herself, which at least helped temper the blush that was likely illuminating her ears. It would absolutely _not _do if Jaime suspected for even a moment that her momentary distraction had been because of his body. Fortunately, he seemed not to have noticed and was just giving her a confused look.

“I think first and foremost, everyone needs to spend some time on target practice.”

Jaime laughed, melodic and genuine. “I agree kid. This team of yours can’t shoot for shit.”

She formed a hard line with her mouth, but refrained from chastising him; they rarely got along as well as they were doing now.

“You should teach them,” she said instead. “Have a … a class or something.”

“You’d entrust me with the education of your beloved crew? I’m touched.”

“Shut up before I change my mind.” She was smiling then—really smiling. “You know you’re good. Don’t make me say it.”

He smirked. “Kid, I’m the best there is.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, and was thankful when Asha appeared with her lunch. She was surprised when Jaime stayed at her table even though he had not ordered anything and the conversation seemed to be over. He was watching her eat—or pretending _not _to watch her eat, more likely—with an uncharacteristically soft expression on his face.

A long silence fell between them then, almost companionable, and for the first time Brienne thought that perhaps the rest of her assignment with a Lannister as first officer might not be _completely_ horrible.

Yet, still she was taken aback when Jaime steepled his fingers upon the table between them, rested his chin upon them, and stared at her for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"Why did you join the Uniformed Services, Brienne?" he asked, his voice contemplative as though it were a question he had been considering for some time.

Brienne immediately dropped her eyes to her plate; no one had bothered to ask her _why_ before. She was big and muscular, ugly, not particularly liked by men or women, and just bookish enough to make her officer material for Space Corps. It seemed to come as a natural assumption to everyone she had ever met that someone like her would not and could not have any other path. But it had not always been the path Brienne had wanted, and she knew—but was not prepared to tell Jaime Lannister—that she could have chosen otherwise.

She inhaled deeply. "My brother. He joined Space Corps, but was killed early in his career. I was just a girl when he died, but I suppose… well, we all look up to someone, don’t we?”

She was not sure why she said it, least of all to Jaime. But it felt good to say it aloud, to admit it. For so long she had tried to set herself apart while still trying to be the sort of officer Galladon would have wanted her to be. Perhaps it was possible to balance the two after all.

"Ah." Jaime leaned back in his chair again, creating distance between them with an oddly sour look. "Galladon Tarth? Sure, I remember what happened to the _Just Maid_. Was he the one who made the stupid mistake with the controls or was someone else responsible for all of those deaths?”

The speed with which Brienne regretted attempting to open up to him was matched only by how quickly her chair clattered to the floor when she stood.

"You will not insult him in my presence, Kingslayer."

A laugh bubbled from Jaime's throat so easily that she felt compelled to wrap her fingers around it.

"'Kingslayer' now is it? Listen kid, I wasn't insulting anyone, if you'll recall. I only asked what happened."

She was seething. His calm, breezy demeanor in the face of her anger was more irritating now than perhaps ever before, but she was beginning to understand how to work around him. She recovered her chair, ignoring the curious looks of the other Crossroads patrons, and sat down in it again.

“Galladon was a victim.”

“But not a hero?”

She clenched her teeth, determined not to let him provoke her to anger yet again. “Why must you be like this? What have I done to make you hate me so?”

“Hate you?” Jaime laughed again and shifted in his chair until his elbows were resting on the table, his gracefully handsome face far too close for her liking. “Why would you think I hate you?”

“You have been nothing but rude and disrespectful since the moment we met.”

“I’ve been _honest _since the moment we met.”

“Men like you are never honest, Lannister.”

“There are no men _like_ me, Brienne.” His slow smile then was all arrogance and danger. “There’s only me.”

She held his eyes for a moment, acutely aware of each speck of gold flecked against the green; the intensity radiating from them seeming to spread an unfamiliar heat throughout her body. There was something else in his eyes, then—something new, something—

“I should go.”

Her eyelids fluttered rapidly as he stood. Whatever had filled the moment between them had passed as quickly as it had arrived, and when he walked away without another word, Brienne was left with a faint buzzing in her ears.

That evening in her quarters, she checked her mail as she always did, at the same time of day. Messages from Westeros Prime typically took several days to reach _The Wall_, way out in deep space in the far North quadrant. She rarely had much; her father was not the communicative type, and Margaery was the only friend she really had.

Tonight, though, she had a message. _Stannis Baratheon_.

“_Begin transmission_,” his dry voice echoed from the monitor in her office. “_This is Admiral Stannis Baratheon. Commander, we have been receiving your reports, along with reports from intel we have on the ground in Winterfell. Our suspicions seem to have been confirmed: someone is funding the current uprising. Remain vigilant when on-planet, and do not let your guard around anyone. Even on-station. Exercise caution in rooting out the rebels; we currently cannot afford to send more Marines. Signing off_.”

Brienne let the screen fade to black, though she continued to stare at the place where Admiral Baratheon’s face had been. _What motive could anyone have for funding an already-defeated rebellion on a backwater planet like Winterfell?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: more action with J&B at the heart of things, plot development, a proper introduction to [some of] our villains, and Brienne beginning to wonder if maybe there's more to Jaime than he allows people to see.
> 
> Your thoughts are appreciated as always! :)


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that I am still stubbornly not having this beta read. All mistakes are my own.

The cold, backwater planet of Winterfell had been inhabited by Starks for several generations, Brienne knew from her education at the Academy. They had never joined the Alliance and, in fact, it was speculated that the Starks had left the solitude of their northern icescapes of Westeros Prime specifically to escape Targaryen oversight. Going back centuries, back even as far as Ancient Westeros, the two families had never held any love for one another. History was littered with rumors that a Targaryen prince had once stolen a Stark daughter, igniting war across the planet and ushering in the first breakdown in monarchy. The Alliance had become the ruling confederacy as the inhabitants of Westeros Prime moved out and up toward the stars. The planets and nations within them were governed primarily by representatives in the senate, but Aerys Targaryen and his son Rhaegar had bound together people from every Allied planet across the galaxy.

Until Jaime Lannister had killed both king and prince.

Or hadn’t.

The narrative had never been made clear to Brienne and Jaime had never been formally punished. But there was now no king—had not been for some fifteen years—and the ties binding the Alliance together were beginning to fray; skirmishes had ignited where before there had been sustained peace. The Starks in their tranquil independent kingdom had been slaughtered under Roose Bolton’s command, and with their deaths also went the last flicker of hope anyone held that things could go back to what they had once been.

Before the starship _Dracarys_ had gone up in flames.

Before Aerys Targaryen’s death.

Before Jaime Lannister.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this."

Jaime took a steadying breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger of his pistol. "I didn't talk you into shit," he said without looking at her, one eye still shut tight and the other focused along the barrel of his weapon, waiting.

"You absolutely did." Brienne shifted her weight from where she was crouched next to him in the snow, facing the other direction to cover his back. "Admiral Barartheon expressly warned us to be careful, and your immediate next move was to go looking for trouble."

"I'm not looking for trouble," he fired off another blast of energy, presumably into a Bolton troop by the unmistakable sound of something heavy crumpling into the snow, "I'm looking for a _solution_."

"You could have looked for a solution on _The Wall_."

"Can't solve the problem without knowing what the problem is, kid."

Brienne huffed her aggravation at his belittling nickname. "I am a fully grown woman, Major."

He chanced a quick glance at her, still appraising even in its brevity. "So I'd noticed."

Brienne turned her head to meet his eyes, but before she could process whatever _that_ was supposed to mean, a cloaked figure appeared over Jaime's shoulder, pistol raised.

Without a word, Brienne pivoted and tackled Jaime into the snow, pressing herself flat against him. The shot sailed mere inches above her head and she could feel the heat of it skim the back of her neck. The blast she heard behind them told her the bolt of energy had crashed into one of the houses they were fighting amongst. She could only pray no one was inside.

In a split second, Brienne had locked her elbows around Jaime's shoulders with her legs on either side of his waist, aimed, and the assailant in the cloak had collapsed into the side of the house he had come around.

There was silence, and Brienne kept very still, waiting. She glanced down at Jaime's face, his cheeks rosy from the cold and an hour of exertion. His green eyes were wide and staring up at her, his jaw slightly slack. He seemed open and vulnerable in a way Brienne was not sure she was comfortable seeing from him. But his expression shifted as soon as she'd noticed it. His hands went to her waist and he bent one knee up enough to roll them so that he was on top of her. His expression as he peered down at her was thunderous and angry. He was electrified enough to send jolts of energy through her body where his fingers pressed into her ribcage.

"Why did you do that?" he hissed.

Brienne rolled her eyes and slid herself out from under him. "The gods only know," she mumbled, "should've let them hit you."

"That was extremely stupid. You could've been killed." He stood up and extended his hand for her to do the same.

"But I wasn't," she sing-songed with some annoyance, ignoring his offered hand and straightening on her own. She glanced around, but saw nothing and heard only the swirling snowy wind. "Is that it?"

Jaime rested his hands on his hips as he scanned the area with narrowed eyes. He sighed and shook his head. "I have no idea."

Brienne huffed. "You can see why I thought this was a bad idea. We don't even have Loras back with us and we both know everyone else needs further training—"

"My guys can shoot," he said firmly.

"Alright, so we have a single squad of Marines. But we have no way of knowing how many of these rebels there are, where they're coming from, what they want—" she was ticking each point off on her fingers while Jaime scowled at her.

"Has anything bad happened?"

"That's not the point!"

Jaime laughed, leaning against the house they had taken cover behind and crossing one boot over the other. "Look, Commander, this is how I see it. Stannis wants us to sit back and wait, but for what exactly? He says they can't spare more Marines—though I'd call bullshit on that—but they want us to keep investigating. What does that mean to you?"

It took Brienne a moment to realize he actually expected an answer and was not speaking rhetorically. She was struggling to come up with anything, and could feel herself growing red with each second that passed. It was her station, her mission, and everyone involved was under her protection. But in truth, she didn't know the best way to protect them from the situation at hand.

_Why is he putting me in this position if he knows that I don't know the answer?_

She met his eyes and had opened her mouth to defend herself somehow, just knowing he would have some condescending remark for her. And indeed, Jaime was smirking at her, his pink lips cocked upward on one side. But his eyes told a different story; _why would he look sad?_

And then it hit her.

"We're expendable."

His smirk twisted into something cold and wry. "Now you're getting it."

"Stannis hates his brother, everyone knows that," she breathed, feeling like all of the blood had drained from her face to pool into her rapidly beating heart. "I'm nothing. I'm absolutely _nothing_. And you—" she clamped her jaw shut before she said something that would shatter their fragile peace.

"No, no. Please do go on, Commander. What am I?"

"You're…" she hesitated, thinking of how he'd insulted Galladon, insulted her, insulted the Alliance—there wasn't much he seemed to have respect for. She wanted to call him Kingslayer and oathbreaker or even just the privileged son of a senator with more wealth than any civil servant should legally have. But there was something else there, too—the evidence of it in the sadness of his eyes, as green and dark as the wilting leaves among the forests of Tarth on a hot summer's day.

"You're _you_," she finished lamely.

Jaime pulled a face. "No more 'Kingslayer' this time, my lady?" he asked, his voice somehow both soft and sharp as a blade.

Brienne wanted to drop her eyes from his, but the hurt she found there was so startling on a man who projected such ruthless disinterest that she felt she wanted to stay there staring into them until the mystery of Jaime Lannister was solved.

Since their impromptu lunch together at Crossroads, he had reverted back to strict professionalism. Though she felt no closer to understanding him, Brienne had begun to notice a pattern: he would say something horrible, she would react, he would explain himself, and she would begrudgingly reconsider her perception of what he had said. The pattern was one she tried to keep in mind when they were thrust together in situations like this. What was more, though: he occasionally let slip some indication that perhaps he respected her—if not as a person, then at least he might respect her abilities. But he did still call her “kid,” a sharp reminder that she was too young and inexperienced for the position she had been given.

At once, a scream rented through the frigid air, and Jaime’s eyes grew wide at the same second as Brienne’s own. Without needing to say a word, they dashed off toward the sound in lockstep, pistols raised.

Jaime ducked for cover behind a house made of stone and straw, and when Brienne slammed herself into the wall beside him, she was momentarily distracted by the way his chest heaved beneath his wool-lined crimson uniform and the coordinating ruddy coloring high in his cheekbones. Jaime’s head was turned in the direction the scream had come from, his too-long curls and the cords of his neck glistening with sweat in a way that made her own skin prickle peculiarly.

But now was certainly not the time for Brienne to think about Jaime’s neck; she would have to unpack the _why _of her unasked-for thoughts later. Currently, Sansa Stark was standing in the middle of the town plaza, seemingly trying to make herself small behind the thin pole of an old well, her laser pistol extended in a shaking pale hand in front of her. On either side of the well, a handful of the same cloaked men they could not seem to shake standing around her.

“She’s going to get us all killed,” Jaime grumbled, his going to the weapon in his hand for a moment before turning his face back towards Brienne’s. She was uncomfortably aware of how close their faces were.

“She only wants to find her brother,” Brienne whispered, her sympathy for the Stark children overwhelming her unwillingness to think of Galladon, of the way her entire body had ached for weeks after the news had been delivered—

“Her brother’s dead, and I’d rather not join him.” Jaime’s voice was harsh and ragged and he had reconcentrated his attention on the men in across from them.

“_She _doesn’t believe that.”

Jaime glanced back at her, his face serious and his brow dipping low. “Only one way to find out, kid.” He widened his stance and squared his shoulders, his head cocked to one side for aim, and fired off the first shot.

Brienne stepped away from the wall just slightly and copied his movements. A look passed briefly between them, Jaime’s mouth a hard line of determination. He nodded, and she felt the corner of her lip twitch instinctively, as though threatening a smile. Instead, she schooled her features, inhaled deeply, and let loose a blast of red energy, taking down a second assailant.

Sansa had noticed them, she realized, meeting the young woman’s eyes. Even from a distance, she looked frightened and as colorless as porcelain. But Sansa didn’t waste time; perhaps bolstered by their arrival, she leaned toward her weapon and squeezed the trigger. The first shot missed, but just barely, and it was fortunate that Sansa knew to flatten herself back against the support shaft of the well, a jet of light sailing past where she had just been standing.

The fight did not last long: Sansa managed to hit one of the advancing men in the arm and Jaime had finished him off, Brienne taking down the figure next to them. She noticed none of them fired often at all, instead just seemed to want to make their way toward Sansa. But each time one of them began to get close, Jaime or Brienne managed to pick them off.

And then, they were gone, the same as before—as though they had never been there at all.

“Fuck me,” Jaime mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Brienne holstered her pistol, mindful to leave the snap undone just in case. She didn’t look at Jaime, just carefully made her way across the plaza to where Sansa had sunk down in front of the well, clearly terrified.

When Brienne approached her, Jaime moving slowly behind her with his pistol still held up cautiously in his hand, Sansa’s blue eyes were large and wet with unshed tears.

“What were you thinking?” Brienne crouched down to rest a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder.

“I don’t know, I—” Sansa shook her head, biting her lip as a tear rolled down her cheek. “I just wanted to find Bran.” She sounded small and delicate, like a child who had broken something and now had to answer to a parent.

“What makes you so sure they have him?” Brienne asked gently, some part of her wishing to pull Sansa into her arms, to soothe and protect her from the harsh realities she had faced for half of her life. She was barely more than a girl, no more than twenty years old to be sure, and Brienne recalled her lonely days at the Academy, knowing in some small way how the Stark girl must have felt.

Sansa scrunched her eyebrows together. “They _have_ to have him,” she said, desperation plain in her voice. “Who else would? Who else would want a little boy? He may be king but he’s—he’s _just a little boy_.”

“Lady Stark,” came Jaime’s low voice from behind them, causing Brienne to startle somewhat. When she looked up at him, she thought she saw that same hurt from before, when he’d talked about how little they and their mission actually meant to the Alliance. If it had ever truly existed, it disappeared as quickly as she noticed it.

Sansa did not reply, only blinked her eyes up at him from where she sat in the snow. With the sun at his back and the cold, gray sky up above, he seemed to radiate light from all around him: burnished golden curls, flashing white teeth, eyes glinting like a pair of precious gems. As Sansa’s features seemed to go soft under the glow of him, Brienne wondered where this man had come from when the one that had been by her side all day, at least, was little more than a hard, angry shadow.

Jaime knelt on Sansa’s other side. “I have a brother. And … a son.” He abruptly lifted the hand that was not holding his pistol as though he might reach out, but just as quickly let it fall onto his knee. “We’ll find out what happened to your brother.”

He straightened again, and though Brienne was trying to catch his eye, he seemed intent on ignoring her.

Jaime was certainly an oddity comprised of many smaller oddities—most of which Brienne was not sure she even _wanted_ to understand. But his sincerity caught her by surprise more than he usually was capable of. Why would he pretend to be so warm and caring for Sansa when Brienne knew he held no hope of Bran’s survival? From anyone else she knew so little about, the situation might have made her uncomfortable. But _Jaime_ was … honest, sometimes cruelly so. Surely he would have no reason to lie now? He might be the Kingslayer, or Tywin Lannister’s golden son, or a half dozen other things Brienne could fault him for. But what good would a lie have done then, what sort of leg up would it give to anyone?

And if he wasn’t lying, the only other option remaining to her was that he was telling the truth. He wanted to find the Boy King, Brandon Stark. For Sansa. The thought seemed absurd.

Brienne had no more time to deliberate on the matter, however. Someone was approaching, but not one of the heavily cloaked and hooded men they had all but grown accustomed to finding in the small villages at Winterfell of late.

This person was smaller than any of the others, almost shrunken even. He was dressed in finer furs than the rest of the men they had fought, but with long and thin dark hair. He had a barely perceptible hunch in his back, even as his pockmarked face was clearly young and free from wrinkles. The smell that he brought with him, though, was worse than anything Brienne had ever experienced. The man’s strange, cruel smile reminded her of the slimy creatures she’d caught between her fingers in the streams on Tarth. But his scent reminded her of death.

“Good afternoon,” he croaked out in what was surely supposed to have been a cheery tone, but came out all wrong. “Governor Bolton sends his regards that he could not meet you in person. My name is Reek. With Eddard and Catelyn Stark and their boy heirs all dead, the Governor has a strong interest in protecting Winterfell's assets from those who would seek to claim it. For example.” He gestured with an arm toward the shuttered and empty houses all around them. “The peasants in this village were planning a coup.”

Brienne stepped forward, just ahead of Jaime on the other side of the well. In just the space of those two steps, she was calculating, but arriving at few answers: how many other men were lurking, ready to attack? Where would they come from? Would Jaime have time to recall his squad of marines to the area, or had he already? Her eyes flitted to the way Reek kept his hands clasped inside the furs he had draped around him. _What is he hiding_?

She straightened her spine, hands on her hips and fingers brushing the hilt of her pistol. “Winterfell is under the protection of the Westerosi Alliance of Planets.” She could feel Jaime looking at her now, but she ignored him, boring her eyes into Reek.

“Funny isn’t it,” said Reek, “how the Alliance never seemed to care about the fighting going on on Winterfell _before_ the mines were discovered. Now there’s a state-of-the-art outpost and—” he leaned forward, squinting first at Brienne’s service jacket and then Jaime’s, “—two decorated war heroes, if I’m not mistaken. Well done.”

“Piss off,” came Jaime’s voice, dripping with venom, from behind her. “Where’s Brandon Stark?”

“Brandon Stark?” Reek asked, tilting his ugly head to one side. “We don’t have Brandon Stark.” His smile crept up his face faster than it had previously.

While she was still reeling from his cryptic announcement, Brienne did not manage to see where or how he had gone. When he was, she spun on her heel toward Jaime.

“Why do you suddenly care about the Stark child?”

Jaime shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Brienne stared at him, forgetting for a moment that they were surrounded by dead bodies in the snow and Sansa Stark hiding behind the well.

“It matters to _me_,” she said softly.

Jaime pressed his finger to his comm, not taking his eyes off of her. “Lannister to ops. Ready for pickup. Heading to nearest transporter location now.”

He said nothing else to her as Brienne helped Sansa to her feet and they rounded up the rest of their crew. She wanted to know, though—_needed_ to know. None of it was adding up to the man she had spent so much time around the last two months, learning his many pet peeves and aggravations. Nothing she had learned about him had included a brother, a son, or the sort of caring concern he had shown Sansa for her brother.

_Who is he_?

As they trekked back to the transporter, Brienne decided that she was going to have to ask him. And soon.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is little more than pure indulgence and does not pass the Bechdel test. Sorry not sorry.

On the Saturday evening following their meeting with Reek, Brienne found herself hovering outside the door to a simulation suite. She needed to go inside, had promised Sansa and Margaery she would go inside, but it was the last place she wanted to be. Brienne had no good memories of parties. And apart from that, she still had quite a lot of work left to do, so she had been standing outside the door trying to talk herself into socializing for just a few hours.

Of all the work she was choosing to abandon for the evening, she felt guiltiest about the reports she needed to get a head start on for the next week. At the top of her list: she had still not concluded the exhaustive write-up for Stannis about the most recent goings-on down on Winterfell. Brienne and her crew did not have the manpower nor the resources to make many meaningful trips to the surface, but the couple that they had taken had certainly been eventful. A skirmish had resulted each time, as though the Bolton rebels were somehow tracking them. For what purpose, Brienne could not yet determine. It was their job to stamp out any embers of rebellion that might still be burning, but she could feel it in her gut that there was more going on than met the eye. She knew, too, that there was a not-small chance that Stannis did not care what she had to say in her reports—but she owed it to Space Corps, to the Alliance, to the people on Winterfell, to make sure the story was told wholly and truthfully.

But tonight … tonight she was going to a name day party.

“How long are you planning on standing there, Tarth?”

Sandor Clegane had wandered into view wearing a faded pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. Brienne could hear jaunty music floating out from the suite behind her, but Sandor did not seem anymore interested in it than she was, his face a shadowy arrangement of scars and frown.

She lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t see _you_ going in.”

“Not my scene.”

“You have a scene?”

He shot her a sideways look. “If I do it isn’t this.”

“But you _are _here.”

“So are you.”

They stared at one another for a moment, Sandor clearly trying to project an aura of standoffishness that Brienne was not buying. She recognized the awkward shift in his stance and the way he tensely squared his shoulders. It might fool anyone else, but they were tics she had firsthand experience with.

“We could go in together,” she suggested, trying to keep the uncertainty out of her voice. Even with someone who seemed just as anxious at her side, it would still be a completely unappealing prospect.

Sandor scoffed. “Who says I wanted to go in?”

Brienne bit back a smile and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, you’re here, for one. And you’re wearing … _that_.”

“Is there a problem with what I’m wearing?” He tugged the hem of his shirt out to look down at what he was wearing, as though he had forgotten what it looked like.

“Well, no, but it isn’t exactly your usual cantina garb.”

“Someone has to guard the door,” he grumbled.

Brienne rolled her eyes, his reluctance rallying her to just the right amount of confidence she had been lacking. “I’ll be your loss, Sandor,” she said as she turned toward the door to the sim suite.

Normally when Brienne entered a simulation suite, she would have set it to look like a winding trail for running, a state-of-the-art gym for working out, or a pretty vista for teaching Podrick Payne about lightsabers and self-defense. But this time, the suite was set up to look more like a ballroom she might expect to find inside a Jane Austen film adaptation. A bar ran along one wall and Asha Greyjoy was behind it, talking to Quentyn Martell whose eyes were wide and his blush furiously red. Pristinely-decorated tables lined the other walls, a number of her crew and civilians alike seated around them wearing smiles and clothes meant for dancing. A few couples were already out on the floor, Sansa among them, gliding along the polished hardwood with Loras Tyrell. In the center of the dance floor stood a grand piano shining jet black under its spotlight. Upon the piano bench, Renly was leaning over the keys with his eyes closed.

Brienne halted just beyond the doorway to watch him. Renly’s black hair glistened, sleek with some sort of product, his face warm and smiling softly. His head was thrown back somewhat as his long fingers floated across the keys, and the sound emanating from the piano was as cheerful and pleasant as the view of the man creating it.

_He’s so talented at everything he does_, Brienne thought, barely containing a wistful sigh.

She stood near the door, trying to seem nonchalant watching Renly play while Sansa and Loras danced. Brienne was clearly not the only person who realized his talent; at the end of each spin, she noticed how Loras’s gaze lingered on Renly’s back. Sansa, though, seemed to only have eyes for the security officer who held her in his arms. Brienne found their smiles as they looked one another infectious, unable to smother her own grin at the sight of them. Loras seemed to be a good man, if a little hotheaded, and after all she had been through, Brienne thought that Sansa very much deserved a little bit of happiness. So what if it was with one of her officers? It was not as though there were laws against an officer dating—

“See something you like, Commander?”

Brienne whipped around to find Jaime Lannister lounging on the other side of the doorway, a drink in each hand and an insolent grin on his too-handsome face. He wore a richly navy suit which fitted snugly around his shoulders and hips. It seemed, too, that he had made some moderate effort to tame the wild blonde curls that normally crowned his head, leaving only a few wild tendrils to flip in different directions at the ends. Brienne found it very annoying how well he cleaned up with apparently only minimal thought involved.

She scowled. “Lieutenant Commander Baratheon plays well.”

Jaime sauntered closer to her and Brienne wondered as he drew near how aware he was that his eyes glinted like emeralds when he was up to no good; a tell of his that she was learning to use to her own advantage. She preemptively glared before he could open his mouth.

“Does he?” Jaime shifted his gaze toward the piano. “Seems a bit clumsy to me.”

“And you could do better?” she said with a snort.

Jaime shrugged and looked contemplative. “Probably.”

She blinked at him, waiting for him to continue, to regale her with some ridiculous story of his hidden prowess behind a musical instrument, but he didn’t. Instead he held out one of the drinks he carried, and she recognized it as the same fruity concoction she’d been persuaded to try some weeks before during the crew’s game of “two truths and a lie.”

“Got you a drink,” he said coolly.

Brienne’s eyebrows shot up, surprised. It was one thing that he had begun treating her more like a commander he respected, and less like a nuisance who did not deserve to grace the same outpost as him, but this was downright friendly. It made her uneasy. She couldn’t help but recall the last party she had attended, back on _the Thorn_ with Ronnet Connington and Hyle Hunt and the rest. She remembered how Connington had held her hand and smiled at her and she had smiled back. And … she could not forget how insulting Jaime had been. He would be just another man she could never and would never trust.

She shook her head. “I wasn’t thirsty.”

Renly had begun banging out an exuberant end to the song he had been playing, a large grin spreading across his face as a frown appeared upon Jaime’s.

“Oh.” He took a sip of the drink he had offered and nodded approvingly. He gave her one last glance, scanning from her feet up the length of the short blue dress Margaery had helped her choose, and back up to her eyes. His frown deepened with what she could only assume was distaste, and she self-consciously tugged at the shoulder straps. “Suit yourself,” he murmured before turning away.

The crowd was clapping and Renly stood to bow dramatically low as though he were a concert pianist and the inhabitants of the space station his adoring fans. Brienne spotted Sansa breaking away from Loras and made a beeline for her.

“Brienne!” Sansa greeted warmly when she had lain her hand on the sleeve of the other woman’s flowing red dress. “I’m so happy you decided to come.” She threw her arms around Brienne’s waist as though they were old friends, and Brienne supposed that perhaps two near-death encounters together were enough to make it true.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” she told her sincerely as they made their way back to a table where Margaery was looking bored by the man talking to her.

“Oh, you’re back!” Margaery breathed quickly, standing up while the man, one of Jaime’s Marines judging by his dress uniform, was mid-sentence. “And _gods_ Brienne, what did I tell you about the dress?”

She felt herself blush as she fidgeted with the neckline for the tenth time that evening, far lower than anything she would normally choose for herself. They had never been particularly close, Brienne having always been on the periphery of Margaery's social life, but she had always been the one to push her toward her more feminine side. That had lasted only as long as they were at the Academy. After that, Brienne had been left to her own devices, which had meant no dresses. She could only smile awkwardly at the compliment.

"_Someone_ seemed to like it," Margaery murmured as she shooed away the Marine who had been failing to capture her attention.

Brienne arched an eyebrow, taking a seat next to Sansa, who only had a dreamy expression on her face. Margaery inclined her head towards the bar.

Brienne turned to look, and found Jaime in easy conversation with Theon and Asha Greyjoy, Asha seeming to have said something that made him laugh. It seemed almost odd to her; he typically did not deign to speak with the rest of the Space Corps crew, preferring to stay at the defense station or in a corner with his Marines, usually Josmyn Peckledon or Hoster Blackwood. When he turned his head in her direction, he replaced his laugh with the same frown he'd worn moments earlier. But he quickly recovered, leaning against the bar with his back to her.

"_Lannister_?" She chuckled mirthlessly. "He clearly thinks I look ridiculous. You should have seen the way he looked at me, like I had no right to be dressed this way. He's an arrogant prick, Margaery."

Margaery hummed cryptically, a twinkle in her eye that Brienne did not at all like. She leaned across the table and laid a delicate hand across Brienne's much larger one. "He really isn't as bad as all that."

“He’s an ass,” she reiterated firmly.

“I know he _was_ an ass, but he seems a bit sad, doesn’t he? I think he might be sorry.”

"I don’t really care what he is." She cocked her head slightly to one side. “Why are you defending him?”

Margaery glanced at Sansa, who was turned around in her chair watching Loras dance chaotically with Renly to an electronic number. "Patient-counselor confidentiality, Commander," she whispered seriously.

"_He asked you for counseling_?" she responded incredulously.

"Not exactly. I _might_ have informed him that he was going to go or he would be medically barred from any further missions." Margaery's expression sobered. "He had no right to speak to you the way he has. Something had to be done. Although," she sighed, "I'm not sure how far we'll get. More often than not he's as walled-off as a castle under siege."

Brienne was unsure how to react, so she didn't. She simply sat there as neutrally as possible, wondering how much of the major's improved behavior toward her had been of his own accord and how much had been down to Margaery's skills as the station's counselor. Or whether the distinction even mattered.

"I suppose he has gotten a bit better, so thank you. But he _is_ still an ass."

Margaery laughed in earnest then, pulling away to lean back in her seat. Sansa shifted in her chair to rejoin the conversation.

"Who's an ass? Are we talking about Lannister?"

Brienne offered Margaery a pointed look—_everyone knows, it’s just a fact_, she said with her eyes, but the other woman only grinned. "It's only been two months! I'm good Brienne, but I'm not that good." She turned her attention to Sansa. "My brother dances quite well, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh leave her alone, she's allowed to dance with whomever she wants."

Sansa's cheeks brightened with a pretty pink blush, but she smiled. "It's alright, Brienne. Yes, he dances very well."

Margaery nodded pensively. "Just be careful. My brother is quite a heartbreaker."

Sansa appeared to chew the inside of her cheek before slowly asking, "what do you mean?"

"I mean, he's nearly thirty years old and I've never known him to have a steady significant other. But don't get me wrong," she rushed on, "he's a good guy. Just… be careful, is all."

"We only danced," Sansa mumbled, her blush deepening.

A shadow appeared across their table then and Brienne glanced up to find a short, wiry-haired young man standing over them. Shadrich Glen, another of Jaime’s Marines.

"Can we help you?" Margaery asked deliberately.

"Just wanted to wish Lady Sansa a happy name day. My lady," he said with a slight bow, smirking with the easy arrogance of youth and a well-tailored uniform.

Brienne ducked her head to hide a smile, glancing at Sansa beneath her eyelashes. For her part, the younger woman’s eyes had widened in surprise.

"Oh, erm, thank you, Sergeant. I’m glad you could make it.”

Shadrich took the chair on Sansa's other side, his legs wide and facing her. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he said low, “but I thought maybe … you might like to continue the celebration somewhere a little more private?”

Sansa’s eyes grew to a size Brienne would have previously thought impossible, and she bit her lip, her body visibly tensing. “I don’t know, Sergeant, about that…”

She trailed off, and Margaery’s mouth had opened, certainly to come to her defense, when another voice spoke up.

“She wants you to fuck off.”

All eyes turned upward where Sandor Clegane was looming over their table, his expression unreadable but his hands drawn loosely into fists. Brienne was certain that the music was still playing behind them, but the fierce look he had affixed Shadrich with was enough to make the world seem silent.

“_She_ didn’t say that.”

Sandor glanced at Sansa, lifting his solitary eyebrow.

“It was nice seeing you, Shadrich,” she said softly.

Shadrich nodded and began making his exit, but the glare he threw toward Sandor was not lost on Brienne. As she watched him stalk off toward the exit, she noticed that Jaime had moved away from the bar, his chin tilted upward seriously and hands on his hips. When he caught her looking, he pressed his lips into a thin smile, gave a small wave, and returned to his seat.

Brienne returned her attention back to the table, where the tension was palpable. Sansa and Sandor looked mutually irritated with one another.

“Why did you do that?”

“Don’t tell me you actually _wanted_ to fuck him.”

Sansa’s face contorted with disgust, though whether at Sandor or at the thought of going to bed with Shadrich, Brienne wasn’t sure. “Of course I—that is _not_ your business, Mr. Clegane.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t say it was. But the little cunt has it coming to him.”

“You are not fighting anyone on this station, Clegane, however much they may or may not be cunts,” Brienne reminded him using her best “Commander” tone.

Margaery snorted, but Sandor just made a grunt that could have been agreement, Brienne couldn’t be sure.

“I thought you weren’t going to come.”

“Free booze is free booze,” he muttered and, without another glance at anyone, made his way over to the bar.

Brienne’s eyes lingered on him just long enough to be sure he wasn’t going to follow Shadrich out the exit, feeling confident that he wouldn’t when he ordered a drink and slid onto the barstool.

There was silence between the three women then, until Sansa grinned wide and took each of their hands “I _love_ this song! Let’s dance!”

Before she could protest further, Brienne found herself on the dance floor—not dancing, just standing on the periphery laughing to herself as Margaery and Sansa let loose. And she thought that this had never happened in her life since joining the Corps, the feeling of maybe having real friends. Perhaps parties didn’t have to be so bad after all.

The following morning, Brienne was glad to discover that the late night had not diminished her desire to run herself to near-exhaustion in the simulation suites. The exchange of credits for the access stick with Sandor seemed a bit more edged with chilliness than usual, although that was not saying much. He usually had some dry joke to offer her, and occasionally the good side of his face might twitch as though threatening him with a smile. She would always at least get a greeting from him. Not this morning though; he had slapped the data stick on the counter without a word and gone back to the kitchen.

Brienne had shrugged it off, although her mind was occupied as fit the stick into its slot and started up the day's program: the famous promenade along the shores of Lannisport, deserted just for her personal use.

She had never visited Lannisport either virtually or in reality, but as she scanned the area, she thought the beaches seemed so much different than what she was used to on Tarth. The waters on Tarth were brighter and bluer, but also wilder and more turbulent. Ambling along the promenade in her running clothes, Brienne considered the manicured beaches of Lannisport and they made her long for home. Here, she could access the beach with no trouble at all. There were plazas, shops, parking lots, and all sorts of signs of use. On Tarth, most of her favorite beaches could only be accessed by hiking half the day and scaling down cliff faces. She thought perhaps no one but her had ever visited some of them. Contrastingly, Lannisport was wide open, on full display, and without secrets.

As she ran, Brienne's mind began to settle, anxieties melting away. The scenery barely registered after a little while and the only sound in her ears were her own heartbeat in time with slow, steadying breaths.

But even as she felt herself begin to focus in that cleansing way a hard run always seemed to inspire, she found herself unable to completely clear her mind. But unlike the previous night hesitating outside the sim suite, it wasn't Stannis Barartheon, the Alliance, or Winterfell that nagged at her; it was the thrice-damned Jaime Lannister. The rest of the crew seemed so straightforward, in direct opposition to the defense officer. In particular, she had noticed a distinct difference since the first mission to Winterfell when Loras had been injured. If she wasn't certain after that, there had definitely been a shift in his behavior toward her since their last mission, when Jaime had only narrowly avoided a direct shot to the back.

It was not even his odd, hot and cold treatment of her that seemed to occupy every gap, nook, and cranny of Brienne’s thoughts, but rather his promise to Sansa Stark.

_We’ll find out what happened to your brother_, he had said, so sincerely Brienne had been taken aback.

“Hey kid.”

Brienne’s pace came to a sudden, lurching halt.

The voice in her head seemed to have manifested itself in her virtual reality.

Standing stock-still and breathing heavily, she mentally logged the new symptom of her slowly unraveling sanity to discuss with Margaery later. _This is becoming absurd_, she mused.

But then Jaime was standing in front of her wearing a sleeveless lycra top and gym shorts that were far shorter than he had any right to be wearing. “Hey,” he repeated, jogging backwards to face her.

Brienne took one look at him—at the way his shirt clung to his chest and hugged the curves of his muscular arms and the way his shorts revealed so much of his toned, golden legs—and with no thought whatsoever, she pivoted completely away and sprinted away from him back the way she had come.

She could hear Jaime take off after her, matching her stride for stride, chattering away as though there was nothing abnormal about the situation at all, but Brienne was only hearing snippets of what he had to say, her mind seeming to have gone completely numb: “—and _I _think you should wear dresses more often—”

She glowered at him from the periphery of her vision as they rounded a corner on the cobblestone walkway. “You could keep … your backhanded insults … to yourself … for once,” she breathed, running back toward the entrance to the sim suite much faster than she normally would.

“_Insult_?” he huffed, and under Jaime’s ever-smiling veneer she could see that he was struggling to keep up with her just as much as she was struggling to outstrip him.

So Brienne dug in harder even as her calves and thighs began to feel like jelly and her lungs burned in protest. She wasn’t sure if the roaring in her ears was the sea stretching forever outward to their left or her own pumping blood begging her to slow down.

“Yes!” she managed on an exhale, and then on the next breath, “_Insult_!” but Jaime had fallen just behind her and soon the sound of his footsteps began to fade. She could not slow down, would not let him overtake her in this race he likely did not even know he was in.

Brienne had entered the simulation at a pier with a little boat shed on one end, and before long they swam into her view. She lengthened her stride, her running shoes striking the ground with such surprising force and speed that she thought for a second she might topple forward. She made the sharp left turn from the promenade onto the wooden pier, trying to slow down as she came to its end but did not enough and she practically bounced off the wall of the boat house.

Stumbling backward, she bent at the waist, hands on her knees and breathing heavily as sweat dripped from her forehead onto the planks of the pier and rolled down the back of her neck to gather in her collar. While she was catching her breath, Jaime came jogging up.

“Mother, Maiden, and Crone, you’re _fast_.” He leant over too, his neck craned upward just enough to stare at her.

“Fuck off,” she grumbled, uninterested in hearing anymore comments about the mannish strength or power of her body. Brienne knew she was good at physical feats and they were something she enjoyed, but they were not something she needed men like Jaime Lannister making fun of her for.

Jaime straightened, pulling a foot behind him in a stretch that she was determined not to watch. “Why are you so bloody stubborn?”

She bristled. “I am _not _stubborn.”

He barked a laugh, letting his foot drop back to the pier and bringing his hands to rest on his narrow hips. Even in her annoyance with him, she could appreciate the beauty of the scene before her: the taste of salt on the wind, the tempestuous ocean crowned by the newly risen sun, and Jaime standing before her like the glistening golden god of it all. It was almost enough to soften her mood.

But only almost.

“You broke into my simulation.”

“_Broke in_?” He seemed just as annoyed now, the laughter dying on his lips and brow furrowing. “I use the Lannisport promenade sim every morning. Imagine my surprise when I found it running and unlocked. I just assumed Clegane or Greyjoy had saved themselves the trouble and launched it for me. For all I knew, _you_ broke into _mine_.”

Brienne and Jaime stared at one another like two warriors of old carved from stone. She could feel that they had reached some sort of impasse; each bit of progress they ever made in what should have been the tightest professional relationship on the station seemed to always crash around their feet within the blink of an eye. It was becoming rather exhausting, but it was as though there was nothing she could do to stop it, as though the only responses she knew to have toward him were either fury or aggravation.

But that wasn’t exactly true, she realized. She just hadn’t been willing to bring it up.

She shifted her attention out toward the horizon, taking in for a moment the way the fresh orange and pink rays of light made the waves glitter as they rolled toward the shore. “Why do you care about Bran Stark?” she asked in a hushed tone, reluctantly moving her eyes back toward Jaime’s to gauge his reaction.

Jaime’s expression did not immediately change. He still looked as thunderous as he had when she had levied her accusation, the gentle sea winds catching his sweat-dampened hair in a way that inexplicably made Brienne want to run her fingers through it too. She hoped her face did not betray her unasked for thoughts as Jaime’s own face finally seemed to soften from the chiseled stone it seemed so often to have been made.

“It’s the right thing to do,” he said softly, as though another, kinder and gentler, person had suddenly inhabited his body and used his mouth to project a voice that could not have belonged to Major Jaime Lannister.

“It is,” she agreed quietly. “But why do _you_ care?”

Whatever softness had taken over him calcified before her eyes. “What do you mean?” he hissed. “He’s likely dead. But his sister isn’t. Their parents are dead, their brother is dead, their uncle—” he sighed, taking a step away from her and scratching his jaw. “I served with Captain Brandon Stark aboard the _Dracarys_. Surely you knew that.”

Brienne opened her mouth to respond, shut it again, and set her jaw at the memory. “Of course I know about the _Dracarys_. The catastrophic voyage that left most of the crew dead, including King Aerys. But not _you_, Senator Tywin Lannister’s golden son.”

Jaime recoiled, blinking rapidly as though she had struck him. She watched, a little nervously, as he seemed to return to his senses. “Think what you like Brienne,” he said through clenched teeth, then turned toward the exit, leaving her there, feeling adrift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a couple of risky decisions on my behalf that were not originally in the rough draft for this fic. I hope those decisions have made sense. I’d love to hear any thoughts/opinions on any of it!


	8. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What am I missing?_ Brienne wondered, recalling every other occasion he’d given her that look. Each time it seemed as though he reserved it just for her. Like she was the only thing worth considering in a universe he had long ago lost patience for. It was absurd, of course. She knew he must surely hate her.

Brienne carried on with her day as normally as possible following the uncomfortable conversation with Major Lannister in the simulation suite that morning. She checked in with the crew for morning muster and braced herself for Jaime’s typical peppering of sarcastic remarks and hard-hitting questions. But that morning, he said nothing. He didn’t even have his usual cup of coffee in hand or so much as the hint of a smile on his face. When the meeting concluded, he spoke briefly and quietly to Lieutenant Peckledon before leaving the room.

She had blocked off the rest of the day for compiling the reports to Admiral Baratheon that she had been neglecting. It felt odd to report directly to Stannis. Captain Seaworth had been genial and patient, always willing to teach and mold those beneath him. The admiral, however, was infamously critical of everyone beneath him. His reputation left Brienne nervously typing, deleting, typing again, and deleting half of what she’d written over and over. To make matters worse, she was fairly certain she felt guilty for the way she had shut Jaime down that morning when Brandon Stark had come up.

He had spoken so openly about the ill-fated starship _Dracarys_ that Brienne felt startled by the vulnerability. It had seemed at odds with the aloof indifference he typically presented with. The one time she had called him “Kingslayer” to his face—as so few would be foolish enough to do given his last name and notoriety—he had just laughed as though he found the moniker amusing. Pointing out widely known facts about the situation seemed to be a bridge too far. It was all so uncharacteristic that Brienne could hardly stop thinking about it.

She had not exactly _meant_ to offend him. Their working relationship had only been improving as time went on, perhaps the result of multiple life-threatening shootouts on a foreign planet, and she could not shake the feeling that she’d dismantled some part of it with her careless words. But she also did not _want_ to feel guilty. Nothing she had said to him had been false, and it was Jaime who had created the friction between them to begin with. But, she kept reminding herself, it also seemed to be Jaime who seemed interested in repairing the damage. Until that morning, anyway. Now she had no idea what to expect.

As she deleted yet another paragraph in her report on the last attack from the Bolton rebels, Brienne thought to herself that perhaps the situation might be for the best. She could apologize for her crassness and they would move on in nothing more than a tolerant professional relationship.

So if Brienne was surprised the next morning to find Jaime standing outside the sim suite with his arms folded over yet another tightly-fitting racing shirt, it was for good reason. She was not sure why he seemed to be waiting for her and knew even less about what to say to him. She gave him a quick once-over, curious, but only slid around him to unlock the suite and step inside.

Jaime followed.

She said nothing.

He stood by the doorway, arms still crossed, and watched her silently as she set up the simulation. Brienne tried not to look at him, to notice the crease between his brows or the intensity of his eyes upon her as she worked her hands over the controls screen. She had no experience with so much attention from anyone, let alone beautiful men with troubled pasts.

The simulation unfolded before them and the bland little control room was suddenly a neverending expanse of red desert dotted by cacti and brittle blue flowers here and there. In the space of a breath, the room grew as hot and dry as the deserts of Sandstone.

“Dorne?” Jaime asked, the first word she’d heard him speak since the previous morning.

She faced him then, as puzzled as usual by the look on his face, as though he were concentrating on something very important. But he was only looking at her.

_What am I missing? _Brienne wondered, recalling every other occasion he’d given her that look. Each time it seemed as though he reserved it just for her. Like she was the only thing worth considering in a universe he had long ago lost patience for. It was absurd, of course. She knew he must surely hate her.

“Dorne,” she confirmed quietly.

Jaime nodded and unfolded himself, bending at the waist to touch his toes. He kept his back as straight as any disciplined athlete, his fingertips gliding down his shins and sweeping the ground in front of him easily.

Brienne gulped. She opened her mouth to ask what he thought he was doing—here, again, in her simulation and interrupting her morning routine. She thought better of it this time, unwilling to bring about a replay of the previous day. Instead, she pivoted on her toes and took off at a jog across the hard-packed dirt.

Jaime almost immediately caught up with her. “Do you not stretch, Tarth?”

Brienne allowed herself the tiniest of smiles. “Static stretching puts the body at higher risk for injury than a simple warm-up jog. It’s been proven for _decades_, Lannister.”

Jaime chuckled, a sound of relief as though he had been holding his breath for some time. “Right. See you in an hour.” And with that he sprinted past her and Brienne had no choice but to give chase.

The following morning, she was surprised to see Jaime outside the sim suite once again. Once again he said nothing as he followed her inside. She was less surprised the next day, and after a week of finding him waiting for her in athletic clothing, she discovered that it was something of a welcome sight. On one occasion Brienne had fired up a gym simulation instead of an outdoor trail. Jaime had not protested and instead offered to spot her bench press. She had mumbled her decline with a blush she slightly hated herself for. He had only shrugged and found a place on the other side of the gym to set up for deadlifts. Some days later, she met again with Podrick for training at swordplay, and Jaime had surprised her again when he had not protested being sent away for the morning.

Brienne was not used to someone else becoming a part of her routine. She had never had a gym partner, and Jaime Lannister was an odd first choice, she had to admit. They rarely spoke as they ran, but he pushed her to go faster and harder. She felt better after working out with him than she had in ages. So Brienne tried not to think about the arrangement too much, lest the absurdity of it begin to unravel the whole thing.

She was grappling with those confusing thoughts when she noticed her usual sim suite already in use and Jaime nowhere to be found one early morning. She asked Sandor whether Jaime had said anything to him, but the barkeep just shook his head.

Puzzled by the change, Brienne silently let herself into the unlocked suite. Her ears were immediately met with the unmistakable whirring crash of lightsabers. Indeed, when she glanced around she realized the suite had been configured to look like the final duel from _The Return of the Jedi_.

Jaime's back was to her, clad in all black as though he fancied himself Luke Skywalker. She wondered whether he'd done it deliberately and had to bite her lip to prevent a smile. Across from Jaime, Podrick Payne's thin face was screwed up in concentration. He swatted at Jaime's slow, deliberate strikes but still was not quick enough. Brienne watched from the door as Jaime's lightsaber landed on Podrick's shoulder with a hiss. Had it been real, the green beam of light would have sliced cleanly through him. Instead, it only made him wince a bit.

"Not terrible, Payne. There may be hope for you yet." Jaime lowered his weapon and clapped Podrick on the shoulder. He used the toe of one boot to scoot Podrick's feet further apart and had him mimic his stance several times before running him through the motions again.

Jaime was good with the boy, Brienne had to admit. As good as he had been with Sansa when he'd promised they would find her brother. For all his callous remarks and scathing glares, there was an incongruous gentleness to her First Officer that settled her. Unbidden, she found herself wondering what sort of father he was to the son he had mentioned only the once; why he had not brought the child with him to _The Wall_ as others with children had. She quickly banished the thoughts from her mind.

Jaime had just disarmed Podrick again and was pointing out the problem with his grip when Brienne cleared her throat.

"Commander." The sheepish surprise in his tone pleased her. It was a rare thing that _she_ could catch _him_ off guard. "You didn't tell me you were a _Star Wars_ fan." The familiar taunting smirk came home to his angular face, her victory short-lived.

"Nor was I going to." She approached the pair of them, Podrick looking guilty. "Curious, though. You seem to know your way around a lightsaber yourself."

Jaime shrugged. "Avoiding my father was my favorite childhood activity and the sim suites have more nerd material preloaded onto them than even _you_ could burn through." He considered her. “Captain of the fencing team?”

_How would he know that?_ “I was.”

“You must have passed my name a few times inside the trophy case, then.”

“I didn’t spend much time looking at trophies.”

Jaime snorted, then twirled the green beam of light by its hilt, sending shadows dancing around the room. His eyes were fixed on her behind the spinning saber, as green and bright as wildfire. It sent a shiver down Brienne's spine.

"Care for a duel, Commander?" he asked, as icily as any villain from a movie.

She huffed a laugh. "I wouldn't want to hurt you."

"You could certainly _try_."

Brienne lifted her chin defiantly, readying herself for the challenge.

Jaime stepped toward her until they were so close their boots nearly touched. He was just short enough to have to look slightly up into her eyes from where he stood. "Has anyone ever told you that you look just like a great stubborn mule when you do that?"

She narrowed her eyes into a glare. Jaime’s tactics had begun to take on a familiarity to her: he meant to provoke her into action.

“And has anyone ever told _you_ that you sound like an arrogant ass every time you open your mouth?”

“Commander,” he gasped, clutching his free hand to his chest melodramatically, “there are children present. Watch your filthy tongue.”

In the periphery of her vision, Podrick’s eyes widened nervously and he shook his head rapidly, taking a step away from them.

Brienne arched an eyebrow, folded her arms across her chest in the narrow space between them, then promptly turned away from him. She heard him huff behind her as she stalked away.

“Brienne. I was—” he caught up to her, standing in her path, “—I was only joking.”

“Noted,” she said crisply.

A row of lightsabers hung on the wall beside the door. She stepped past Jaime and ran her fingers down one, her favorite. The hilt was pewter, bulky and long. It had served her overly large hands well over the years and the length of it gave her even more reach than her long arms already afforded her.

Jaime’s eyebrows were raised when she turned around to face him, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the hilt of his own saber: an ostentatious and girthy golden thing she’d never bothered to look twice at. He walked slowly backward away from her, a cocky grin creeping across his face.

Brienne straightened and ignited her saber at the same moment as Jaime. He struck first, a powerful overhanded attack that left him exposed as he lunged. Brienne swung toward his undefended ribcage. Jaime pivoted just in time to change the trajectory of his saber, crashing it down onto her own. With his broad shoulders and the way his uniform normally hugged his biceps, Brienne had pegged him for strong, but his reflexes were keen as well, it seemed.

For a moment the room was alight with blue and green sparks and arcs of light, the only sounds their heavy breathing and the crescendo of their lightsabers against one another. Jaime drove into her with a relentlessness she had never experienced from any other man. She was used to being underestimated; it was a fact she had been able to rely on consistently to bring her to victory. She wasn’t sure whether Jaime knew better than to underestimate her because of her sex, or simply didn’t care.

They moved around the room together as though in a dance. For a brief second Brienne regretted turning him down at Sansa’s name day party; her body seemed to move in time with his with intoxicating synchrony. She seemed to know where his foot would land before it did, could anticipate a low sweep or high arch before he’d even lifted his weapon. For his part, Jaime kept in time with her in a graceful sort of effortlessness. He met every stroke and thrust with a block so solid it sent shockwaves up her arm and rattled the very core of her. Brienne had never lost a match to any man. Jaime Lannister would not be the first, but he was certainly giving her the best challenge she’d ever had.

"You move well," Jaime panted from a position of temporary high ground atop a small set of stairs.

"For a woman?" she breathed through gritted teeth, remembering Connington and Hunt and the rest during the melee on _The Thorn_.

"For a kid," he taunted with a wicked grin.

She charged at him again, her attack nearly sending him spinning as he blocked and deflected.

For any other opponent, it served her well to remain on the defense while they wore themselves down with attacks that would ultimately get them nowhere. She expected much the same from this one, but the match was dragging on and he showed no hint of tiring. His face was flushed, his hair clung to his forehead, and his black Skywalker outfit was damp with sweat as well. But still he pressed into her, seeming to only grow faster and stronger with every effort. He was like nothing Brienne had ever come across, in simulation or otherwise.

The room was in chaos. Podrick had pressed himself to a blank space on the wall as chairs were sent flying, tabletops were seared in half, and railings were reduced to curled and melted twists of metal. Brienne was beginning to tire, but she suspected that Jaime was too, and she _would not_ let him win. She charged into him with a flurry of attacks that he deflected with mounting difficulty. Their sabers crossed, sparking and hissing and illuminating Jaime’s determined face. She leaned into her weapon with all of her weight but Jaime was strong, just barely holding her off. She stepped into him, her thigh between his legs. He took a step back—

And stumbled.

Brienne followed him down, her knees planted on each side of his hips. She pinned his sword arm down and held the tip of her own to his throat.

“Yield,” she said through her clenched jaw.

Jaime struggled against the weight of her on his arm but she held fast, not yet making contact with his flesh, wanting to hear him say the words first. “I said _yield_.”

“We really must stop meeting like this,” he said from beneath her with a wry grin. “Unless you're taking some fiendish pleasure from it, of course.”

She increased the pressure against his arm, but he only laughed. At once she felt him hook his foot around her ankle, fisting his free hand into her tunic and moving to flip them with an upward thrust of his hips. She stopped him with a well-placed knee and shove into his shoulder. The breath went out of him as she slammed him back into the ground.

“YIELD!”

He was just grinning up at her as she hovered over him with gritted teeth. She shook, furious that he was not taking this as seriously as she was. Furious, perhaps, that it had been a stumble over Podrick’s mislain lightsaber that had ended their bout. She knew he was better than that. It didn’t seem _fair_—

Her saber made contact with his jaw, buzzing harmlessly against his skin. “Ah, and there you have me, Commander.”

Brienne inhaled deeply and drew back from him, only then realizing how close her face had been to his, how heated his body was beneath hers. Suddenly she was very aware of every inch of her body in contact with his. Her thighs across his lap, her fingers on his bicep. She felt herself go somehow redder than even the exertion of their duel had brought about. She prayed he would not notice.

"You can climb off anytime you like, you know. I'm not complaining, but—"

"Please stop talking," she grumbled as she stood. She watched from the corner of her eye as he climbed to his feet as well. "Why are you in my simulation, again?"

"Is it solely yours now? I thought we'd been sharing so nicely." Jaime straightened the collar of his tunic. "The boy said he was waiting on you to learn swordplay. I thought he might like a real lesson."

"You talk as though I didn't just beat you."

"On a technicality."

"You should have a better eye for your surroundings."

"I had my eyes exactly where I wanted them."

He was staring at her in that peculiar way of his that made her mouth go dry. Before she could say anything, Podrick appeared at their elbows with a small voice.

"I think I had better get to c-c-class, Ser." His eyes darted up to Jaime's for only a second before letting them fall to the ground again. "Thank you, Ser."

Jaime smiled, a hint of warmth in his face. "Chin up, lad, you did well. You still need a lot of work, but it's nothing the Commander and I can't sort out, I'm sure. Perhaps eventually you'll be as good as her and nearly as good as me." He caught Brienne's eye and with a tilt of his chin his smile became a smirk.

"I believe you saw who won today, Pod."

The boy gave her a small smile and nodded. "Yes, Ser. But you were both very g-g-good!" He shot Jaime an alarmed look.

"You're confusing the boy, Brienne. Run along, Podrick. We'll see you next time."

"Next time?" Brienne rounded on him once the door to the simulation suite had slid closed.

Jaime was hanging up his lightsaber in the rack on the wall. "Oh, let's not pretend you didn't have a good time. _I _did."

"You were a worthy opponent," she replied grudgingly. She certainly _was not_ going to tell him that he was the best she'd ever had.

“Was that a compliment, Commander?”

“I would never,” she said as she hung up her saber next to his and they exited the simulation suite together. There was nothing she could do to stop the small smile that clung to her lips.

Brienne was not first to the control room that morning. In truth, her body ached from their duel and she had had to talk herself into leaving the warmth of her shower. When she arrived, Jaime was crouched next to Loras, pointing at something on a screen in front of him that Brienne couldn’t quite see. He seemed no worse for wear, clean-shaven and curls loose as those freshly washed and dried.

“Good morning,” she called to the room at large. Several occupants gave her a curious look. She was always the earliest to the control room, or at worst second only to Jaime. That day she only just managed to pull her hair back into the severe bun she normally wore and hurriedly run an iron over her blouse. It was not the best start to the news she needed to break and she wondered whether allowing herself to get carried away with Jaime had been the best idea.

"I have good news and … mediocre news." She offered her crew a tight-lipped smile and a couple of people chuckled. She tried to think of how Davos would put his crew at ease before a mission, but she still felt like she was floundering. "The good news is that we've been allotted additional Marines, as you no doubt will have noticed by now. They arrived yesterday along with several new landcruisers and an array of equipment.

"I'll be honest. The Alliance has not acknowledged a full-scale Bolton uprising on Winterfell. Obtaining all of this was down to Major Lannister." She glanced over him, but he was only frowning as the crew murmured around them. "Our scout teams have received only limited information. We know the leader of ground rebels seems to be a character known only as Reek, a close personal acquaintance of Governor Ramsay Bolton, son of the late Roose Bolton. Ramsay has been missing in action for some time. We don't know much about the circumstances, but we do suspect that he is indeed alive and does not intend to cooperate.

"This operation is bigger than we thought it would need to be. But we are here to maintain the stability of Winterfell and the Northern quadrant. We don't know what Bolton has up his sleeve or what his ultimate goal might be. We do believe he may be holding Bran Stark captive, although Reek has denied any knowledge of the Stark boy."

She took a small step back and glanced over to Jaime, who nodded and crossed his arms over his chest.

"The plan is simple. Foremost, we find Bran Stark and we keep him safe. Second, we find Reek and Ramsay and we bring them to justice. We have leads and connections. We'll start with those. Winterfell has seen enough bloodshed. Ours will be minimal."

"_Minimal_?" Loras immediately fired back, standing from his seat to gape at Jaime.

"After what they've done to my family?" Sansa supplied. "My father was beheaded! My brother was murdered at his own wedding!"

Jaime's face was grim. "Further war won't bring your family back, my lady." The answer surprised Brienne; Major Jaime Lannister was notorious for nothing if not hotheaded impulsiveness.

"They nearly killed me. They have _been_ trying to kill us!" Loras's voice was a pitch higher than normal.

Renly crossed the room to stand next to him, placing a hand upon his arm. "Loras, be rational."

Loras drew back as though he meant to lash out at him too, but Renly's face was nothing but genuine concern. "This is a bad call, Ren."

"It's the only option we've got. Listen to your superiors for once, Loras," said Margaery, glancing between Sansa and Loras as though trying to decide who would unleash first.

"We have the option to kill every last one of them. How can any of you expect Winterfell to be safe otherwise?"

The room was quiet for the space of a heartbeat at Loras's words.

Brienne cleared her throat. "We can't know what will happen with certainty. But if this is truly a _Bolton_ uprising, then we will act against the _Boltons_. Nothing good ever came from needless bloodshed. The timeline and instructions have been disseminated onto your personal data banks. This mission will not be a short one. I suggest you all get ready.”

The crew, much to her surprise, did as she instructed and began to file out of the control room. Theon filed out last, giving her a squirrelly look and shuffling past quickly, leaving her alone with Jaime again.

“You continue to astonish,” he said.

“Me?” She nearly laughed at that. She had never been anything but predictable, whereas Jaime himself was the one who was difficult to pin down.

“Yes,” he said with a smile, “you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. If you know me outside of AO3, you probably know I'm an ICU nurse and have been incredibly busy with and distracted by work during these strange and horrible times. I can't promise that I'm back to weekly updates, but hopefully the gap will not be so wide again. I appreciate all of you, and I hope no one thought this fic was abandoned. I promise it isn't!


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sit,” Jaime ordered from where he towered over her. “You’ll only get yourself shot or worse, and who do you think will have to go after you? Let them secure the area first.”
> 
> Brienne wanted to fight him. Her blood seemed to sing with it. Her people—her friends—were out there. She had to know if there were injuries, where the blast had come from, who was responsible—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning: the violence in this chapter is a little more graphic than it has been in the past. It's a bit of a heavy one.
> 
> Reminder that all mistakes are my own. And another thank you to everyone who has encouraged me with this fic.

The first morning on Winterfell dawned bright and clear into Brienne’s bedroom. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon, a distant and warm contrast to the icy blue and white on the other side of the single small window. She had missed the view of the sun illuminating a planet. Aboard _The Wall_, she frequently stopped to watch it from behind the giant pressure glass windows or the simulation of it in one of the suites in the plaza. None of it came close to the unsubstitutable warmth on her skin.

"Are you alright?"

Brienne let out the breath she had not realized she’d been holding and turned away from the window. "Just admiring the view."

Margaery squinted over Brienne's shoulder. "Mmm. Slush and mud. Beautiful."

“There’s … also ice. _And _snow,” Brienne said defensively, turning to face her friend.

Margaery hummed and sat down on the bed opposite Brienne’s own. “It seems we have very different opinions on what’s beautiful.”

They had arrived on Winterfell the previous day, returning once more to the central winter village where Sansa had brought them to meet Nan weeks earlier. Winterfell had precious few transporter points, so the little town seemed to be the only viable option to set up their base camp. The villagers, typically wary of outsiders in general and the Alliance in particular, had only agreed to allow them to take over their singular inn at Sansa’s imploring.

It was for Bran, she had told them.

It was _all _for Bran. If they had loved and believed in Ned Stark, then they would want to do whatever they could to find his eldest surviving son. Bran was the way forward, Sansa had impassionately told them. He would be their guiding light—the path to stability and peace on Winterfell. Brienne had been impressed by the town council’s swift and heartfelt response to Sansa’s plea. She wondered about Ned Stark, a man she had never known but whose world and family she was risking war to protect; risking her own life, the lives of her crew. She had gathered that he had been a man whose name opened hearts and doors alike. With his son in mind, she had stood at the back of the room and silently thanked the man for what must have been good leadership and a great deal of trustworthiness. She didn’t think they would have made it as far as they had without his good name at their backs.

Before they had left the station, Brienne had gathered the team to brief them on the plan. The majority of the crew would descend to Winterfell with the concurrent goals of recovering Bran Stark and discovering the whereabouts of Reek and Ramsay Bolton. _The Wall_ would remain manned by a skeleton crew and half of Jaime’s Marines; if they could find Bran Stark and root out the Bolton resistance once and for all, defense of _The Wall_ would be no problem. Brienne had seen it as a matter of priority, although the risk made her nervous.

She had assigned Theon Greyjoy to stay behind to keep the station and the transporters operational, making him the highest ranking crewman on the station. He was young—most of them were—and he rubbed Brienne the wrong way at times, but she knew she needed to trust him. If the crew was going to trust in _her_ in spite of her lack of qualifications and recommendations behind her name, she had to show that she would return their trust, too.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve got that faraway look on your face. You used to do that before a big exam or a fencing bout. What are you thinking about?”

Brienne sighed heavily and fell onto the straw bed at Margaery’s side. "I'm afraid I'm doing this wrong. I don't know how I got here. Nothing on my service record is anything that anyone else couldn’t have done."

"That's not true, Brienne.” Margaery’s voice was firm as she squeezed the hand Brienne had been wringing in her lap. “Without you none of it would have happened. I know you’re too modest to feel it, but you’ve been a hero. We all know you’ve saved lives, and you’re going to save this planet, too. You _will_,” she added with finality when Brienne opened her mouth to protest.

“I can try,” she admitted.

Margaery’s face softened and she let go of her hand to pull Brienne into a sideways hug.

“You don’t think I’m going to fail?” Brienne asked in barely more than a whisper.

"No. But I _do_ think you should consider apologising to Major Lannister."

Brienne pulled away, confused. “What? Why would I…? What has he told you?”

Margaery laughed. “Don’t sound so accusing, he’s barely spoken of you at all. It’s just something I’ve observed. He’s _trying_, I don’t know if you’ve noticed. Maybe you could too?”

“But I—”

“I hope you’re not about to tell me that you _didn’t start it_. This isn’t primary school, Brienne.”

Brienne felt her cheeks go hot. “Have I been so obvious?”

Margaery only gave her a sympathetic look and patted her hand before standing up. “Just talk to him, would you? The antagonism and one-upmanship is becoming unbearable for all of us.”

After a few cleansing breaths, Brienne hoisted herself up as well and made her way downstairs. Upon entering the main room-cum-mess hall, she easily spotted Jaime’s golden head where he sat eating alone, eyes scanning the room. He wore the typical winter uniform of crimson wool with a parka already on over it, even though he sat by the fire. His cheeks were rosy, and Brienne was inclined to believe that he was actually too warm but unwilling to admit that he’d overdressed by actually taking the jacket off. It seemed very typical.

With a deep breath she walked over and sat down across from him.

He regarded her with a curious expression, chewing an apple. "Good morning, Commander," he said loftily after he had swallowed.

Brienne kept still, unsure how to begin. Jaime wasn't smiling, but his features were soft where they were normally sharp. "I wanted to apologize."

Jaime quirked an eyebrow and leaned slightly toward her. "Alright. You have my attention."

"The Lannisport simulation." She bit her lip. "Oh seven hells, before then, too. I have treated you … very unprofessionally."

He looked amused, green eyes twinkling. He pressed his lips into a thin line as though trying to hold in the quips and insults he normally met her with. Instead, he only nodded.

“Don’t you have anything to say?”

“Do you really need to hear it?”

Brienne shot him a hard look.

“Fine.”

“Yes?”

“I am … also sorry.”

Brienne sputtered a laugh: his face was drawn as though the words had clawed their way out of him at the expense of great physical pain. His expression morphed into a pointed glare, which only served to make her laugh harder.

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little bit funny,” she gasped as she tried to slow down and regulate her breathing. The thought crossed her mind that she had not laughed so hard in a very long time.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Jaime grumbled, leaning away from her again, the corners of his mouth turned up in an easy smile.

The laughter eventually subsided and Jaime had begun to pick at his breakfast again. Brienne glanced around, the rest of the crew laughing and talking around them but paying no attention. She turned her attention back to him, but his eyes were cast down at his tray. The air around them felt oddly peaceful, a decided change. Not even those moments when Brienne had caught Jaime looking at her in that indescribable way of his had felt so … _normal_.

"Why have you been so kind to me lately?" she asked abruptly.

“_Kind_? I’ve never been _kind _a day in my life and I resent the accusation.”

“Less awful, then.” She grinned in spite of herself. “You know what I mean, Lannister.”

"You _could _call me Jaime."

"Too unprofessional,” she said with a shake of her head.

"You call the Tyrells by their names. I've heard you do it. When we're not on duty, it's always ‘Margie’ to you."

“I do _not_ call her that.”

“I bet you do, when it’s just you hens. Does she call you... Bri-Bri? Just Bri, singular, maybe?”

He was grinning wickedly, but she just rolled her eyes. "She and I go back a long time. We were at the Academy together."

Jaime snorted. "When was that, last year?" But then at the look she shot him he raised his hands to shoulder level in a display of would-be innocence. "So sorry. Did not mean to to drag up your sensitivities, kid."

"I can't believe I just called you kind."

"In my defense, I _have_ been trying to tell you that I'm not."

She arched an eyebrow and allowed herself a small smile. "You were good with Pod the other day. And with Sansa, when you promised to find her brother."

Jaime dropped his gaze. His expression sobered and at once he looked ten years older.

"It's the least I can do."

Brienne thought, not for the first time, of Brandon Stark, and Jaime's relationship to him. She had to admit that although the defense officer was often prickly at best and an inferno of rage at worst, she had still not yet found the congruency between the man she had worked with the past several months and the man whose reputation she had been warned about.

The first man had proven himself to have her back over and over again from their very first mission. Perhaps even before then, when he'd supported her decision with the rebel ships. Brienne had never felt so solidly supported, even under Davos. The rest of the crew on _The Thorn_ had openly sneered at her, especially after the incident with the bet. No one had ever actually allowed her to talk, had actually listened to her. Jaime Lannister had, though. The thought of it almost made her laugh.

Fortunately, she didn't because Jaime was starting off into the middle distance very seriously.

"We'll find Bran," she said, wishing she sounded more certain of herself.

Jaime's gaze slowly slid back over her, searching her face with a raw expression. "I never believed you would let anything keep you from it."

Brienne chewed her lip. "You caught me off guard in the Lannisport simulation. I was very rude."

"Is this a second apology?"

"It's an offer to continue the conversation."

Jaime nodded slowly, although he still seemed unreachable. Without another word, he rose from the table and placed his hands on his hips.

“We should head out. It’s been a slow start as it is.”

Brienne agreed and made to leave with him when she realized she had been so wrapped up in their conversation that she had not even eaten breakfast.

An hour later, she found herself in the back seat of one of the new land cruisers the Alliance had shipped in. She had intended to put Jaime with Renly in one vehicle and Loras with herself. Jaime, however, had resolutely refused, claiming that if he had to spend another moment around Renly Baratheon after the night and morning he had had sharing a room with him, he really would have to be charged for the murder of a crewmate. Brienne had not found that quite as funny as Jaime had, but she relented and agreed to share with him nonetheless.

The mood in the car was light, perhaps a result of Jaime and Brienne’s recent truce. Brienne was getting to know one of the new Marines, Dacey Mormont, and Jaime was doling out absurd professional advice to Lieutenant Peckledon, making them all laugh.

“And the main thing to remember, Peck,” he was saying, “is to never let your guard down. You never know when your Commander might break into your simulation and attack you with a lightsaber.” Jaime tilted his head across the backseat to grin mischievously at her.

As Peck confusedly asked, “…lightsabers?” Brienne laughed even as she wanted to argue against that narrative. Something that had been coiled tight in the pit of her stomach as short a time ago as just that morning seemed to further loosen. Jaime met her eyes, his own shining as bright as his smile and crinkling handsomely at the corners. It was easily the most lighthearted and comfortable she had ever seen her second in command, his arms outstretched across the back of his seat across from her and one boot crossed over the other.

They were still smiling when she felt the explosion like a kick in the chest. In one instant a roar like nothing she’d ever heard pounded against her ears, and the next she could only hear ringing. She turned as if in slow motion toward Cleos in the driver’s seat, just in time for him to slam their cruiser to a halt, throwing them all forward.

The vehicle in front of them had caught flames on the front end and bodies were stumbling out. They looked untouched but–

_Margaery_, came her first thought, followed by Renly, Sansa, Loras, and the rest.

She scrambled to undo her restraints and was heading toward the door when a strong arm caught her around the waist and pulled her roughly back into the seat.

“Sit,” Jaime ordered from where he towered over her. “You’ll only get yourself shot or worse, and who do you think will have to go after you? Let them secure the area first.”

Brienne wanted to fight him. Her blood seemed to sing with it. Her people—her _friends_—were out there. She had to know if there were injuries, where the blast had come from, who was responsible—

She tried to stand again, but as soon as she did the planet seemed to spin beneath her and Jaime’s grip on her shoulders tightened. She allowed him to hold her in place then, the rage draining out of her when she looked up at his face. His eyes were wide but his brow was low and his jaw was set. She reached up a hand and grazed his with her fingertips, grounding herself to him like he was her constant.

He moved his hands up to frame her face. “Brienne,” he said, “are you alright?”

She gulped and nodded, feeling the blood rush back to her face and hands. She realized Jaime was crouching in front of her, between the benches they had been sitting on surely only seconds before.

“I think you might’ve knocked your head on the window,” he said gently, pushing his fingers gently into her hair to touch the spot.

“It’s fine.” She winced and pulled her head away from him to assess the cabin of the landcruiser.

The Marine she’d been getting to know, Sergeant Mormont, had pressed herself against the far door, peering outside with her pistol already in one hand and her dagger in the other. Peck was on his heels next to Jaime, similarly alert. Everyone seemed fine. She chanced a glance out the window and saw two Marines, distinguished by the bands of gold on the sleeves and collars of their crimson shirts, identical to Jaime’s but for the black ranks on the collars and golden names on the breasts. She recognized one of the pair as Shadrich Glen, the cocksure young man who had been intent on Sansa at her name day party.

“They’re just securing the area,” Jaime whispered. “Making sure there are no threats to anyone else. It will just be a minute.”

“I understand how it works, Lannister. I only bumped my head, I’m not a _child_.”

“I know that,” he snapped, glaring.

Brienne opened her mouth to respond but was cut short when a scream rent through the air. Everyone in the cabin scrambled for the nearest window, but Brienne saw it almost immediately: the red-haired Marine was in the snow, tearing frantically at a smoking wound in his chest. His partner, another very young man, had draped himself across Shadrich’s body and was firing into the treeline.

“_Fuck_.” Jaime didn’t waste time then, lunging toward the door in the middle of the cruiser. “Return fire!” he commanded over his shoulder, throwing it open.

Brienne took the other door behind him, but she saw no targets in sight. Instead, just an undisturbed snowy hill rose up before her, a small cluster of trees up at the top. It seemed so out of place, gentle and picturesque. A rustling at the other end of the ship caught her attention and, keeping a low profile, she flattened herself to their still-intact cruiser and edged toward the fiery wreckage in front of her. Even as she crept along, she hoped Jaime didn’t notice her absence. She knew he hadn’t meant for anyone to leave the ship, not until the Marines in the rear had cleared the area. But she _had_ to get to her crew.

“Commander!”

She collided directly into Sansa and reached out to put a hand on the other woman’s shoulder to steady them both.

“Are you alright? Where are the others?”

“We’re fine, everyone’s fine. I was coming to find you—”

“Get inside,” Brienne told her firmly, already pushing past, “keep your pistol up. Don’t pull the trigger unless you’re sure you want to kill whoever’s on the other side. Understand?”

Sansa nodded, her blue eyes round and her face drained of color. But she pulled her pistol out of her belt and headed with her spine straight toward the cruiser’s entrance.

Brienne circled around the front of the cruiser, keeping an eye out for undisturbed ground or other indications that another explosive might be lurking nearby. The front end of the lead cruiser was destroyed, smoking and melted. Loras was taking cover on one knee in the muddy snow at the rear, concentrating on his target over the barrel. Behind him, the rest of the crew from the lead vehicle had arranged themselves in a half-circle, their weapons pointing in different directions to cover Loras’s back.

She waited until he’d fired off his shot and then hissed his name, beckoning the group over. Loras shook his head sharply, his face drawn tight. Brienne huffed and poked her head around the vehicle. She could see the Bolton men mingling among the trees on the other side of the clearing they had been driving through. Shadrich’s body was still out in the open, but the other Marine must have taken cover elsewhere. Even as her heart ached for the young man she could have done nothing to protect, Brienne turned her focus toward one of their assailants. She took aim, inhaled a steadying breath, squeezed the trigger, and from there everything seemed to blur together.

The battle felt like it went on and on without end; the rebels did not seem intent on dematerializing—or whatever they had been doing—this time. Brienne’s arm was like lead, her back and shoulders ached, and her uniform was soaked and dirty. She had eventually convinced the crew from the still-smouldering wreckage of the lead vehicle to take cover inside the second and third vehicles. She had not seen anyone else in so long, but had heard no screams and their enemies continued to fall. She could only assume—could only hope—that they were all still alright.

She had pressed herself against the side of the land cruiser to briefly massage her overused and burning bicep when she heard fevered low voices within the cabin

“It’s him!” shouted Sansa Stark’s voice before Brienne could react. “Commander Tarth!”

She bolted back inside, relieved to see the rest of the crew more or less in one piece. The Marine who had gone out with Sergeant Glen had his shirt off and Renly was tending to a through-and-through wound in his shoulder. She couldn’t spare him much more than relief that he was breathing and grimacing, alive.

“Reek,” Sansa panted, coming up to Brienne’s elbow and pointing through a window toward the familiar humpbacked figure standing in the middle of the clearing.

Jaime and Loras, dressed in contrasting red and gold uniforms, framed the door facing the forest, but wore identical looks of confusion. They had ceased firing and, indeed, when Brienne scanned the treeline, she found no evidence anyone had ever been there at all. There was only Reek, in the middle of what could only have been described as their battlefield. Plants and rocks and dirt had been blasted from the ground, smoke rising eerily from the snow all around him.

Brienne moved to stand behind Jaime, hesitant.

“I think he’s waiting for me,” she said at last, quiet. “He’s after something. I think—maybe he believes I can give him the answers he wants.”

Jaime and Loras both shot her incredulous looks. “Commander,” Loras said through gritted teeth, “just say the word and I’ll blow his fucking head off.”

Jaime scoffed. “Brilliant plan, Tyrell, except it doesn’t solve anything. We need Ramsay, and to get Ramsay we need this fucking prick. _Alive_.” He turned his attention toward Brienne. “But that doesn’t mean you’re going out there alone.”

Brienne shook her head vehemently. “I won’t risk anyone else. And you won’t either, no matter what happens. Return back to base camp, get that Marine looked at, make sure Sergeant Glen’s remains make it home. That’s an order, Major, do you understand?”

Jaime gave her the same searching look as he had that morning—had it really only been that morning? After a moment he straightened, nodded curtly, and ducked back into the cruiser. Some part of her wanted to reach after him, to beg him to stay by her side. But she ignored it, and instead gave Loras a humorless smile. He only frowned before obediently following behind Jaime.

Brienne hovered in the doorway for a moment longer, and then stepped out into the snow, the door shutting behind her. She was no more than ten paces away from the ship when at least a half-dozen rebels stepped out of the treeline, blasters raised and pointing directly at her.

_Fuck_.

She glanced back one last time at the quiet and unmoving ship. This was it. She raised her pistol, and began the fight anew, even as her body felt it could handle no more. It was only a matter of seconds before she realized someone was at her side.

“You said you wouldn’t risk yourself!” she shouted as she dropped into the mud, Jaime’s body pressed to the ground next to her in an instant.

“Have you never heard that Lannisters lie?” he hissed.

_Fuck_.

She kept her pistol trained to her eye but with her free hand pressed the comm on her ear. “Tyrell!” she shouted as she did, “Loras!”

“I’m here.”

Relief washed over her. “Back to camp. _Now_.”

“Commander we can’t _leave_ _you—_”

“We’ll take the other ship! _Go_!”

Silence rang in her ears for several seconds before she heard Loras speak again, his voice low and resigned: “Aye, Ser.”

The ship took off, but Brienne didn’t hear it. She only felt pain, terrible pain, and a vague awareness that someone was holding her in their arms and calling her name, as though from very far away.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Jaime,” he said with finality, “my name is Jaime.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some dark descriptions of character death. Although it is dark, I don't think it's especially graphic. Just be mindful.
> 
> An enormous thank you to [sdwolfpup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdwolfpup/pseuds/sdwolfpup) for listening to me complain about this chapter for the past several weeks and doing multiple read-throughs of all my various drafts. This chapter would be unreadable without her! <3
> 
> And thank you all, too, for staying with this fic even as updates are a bit sporadic. It's appreciated.

Ronnet Connington was the very last person Brienne expected to see. He appeared to her exactly the same as last she saw him, holding a rose and a cruel smile. The room they were in was unrecognizable, bathed in wispy shadows as it was. It was cold, damp, and Brienne _ached_ all over. She needed his help, but Connington only smiled.

“Brienne Tarth,” he said in a venomously smooth voice that sounded nothing like the one she remembered. “Come to collect your rose?”

The last time she had seen Connington she had still been a shy and uncertain young deputy security officer. He and his friends--_Hyle especially_\--had counted on that for their bet. They had been lucky that she had been too mortified to tell Captain Seaworth. He was a gentle man until provoked, and Brienne had been certain the situation would have provoked him.

“You’ll never have it,” he hissed. “You’ll never have _him _and you’ll never have _this_.” 

He threw the rose at her feet and Brienne jolted awake.

The room she seemed to actually be in was nearly as shadowy as the one she had just left behind, but the two could not have been more different otherwise. She had been cold in her dream, but wherever she had awoken was too warm. A fire crackled in the hearth at one end of the tiny room, recessed into the stone wall. The shadows it cast danced in gay merriment, a welcome contrast to the poorly-lit ballroom where Connington had so expertly crafted the worst day of her life. The room she was in now might even have felt cozy if not for the drumbeat pounding in her head, or the sharp stabs of pain with each breath she took.

It was several moments before she registered the feeling of someone’s fingers performing some sort of care to a very sore place on her ribcage, gentle as the Maiden in their efforts.

“Renly?” she muttered, her throat dry and her voice a weak, unrecognizable thing.

“No. Your precious _Renly_ isn’t here.”

Brienne willed her eyes open again, trying desperately to focus on something, _anything_ in the blurry room around her. She was on a bed, though not a comfortable one. And someone sat at her side, brows knitted together as he worked on whatever injury she must have sustained. The pain was barely noticeable for the fog of disorientation enveloping her.

But there was no mistaking the golden curls or sharply focused green eyes.

“Jaime," she breathed, less to him and more to convince herself that he was real.

He barked a laugh and met her eyes. His gaze seemed to steady her, the room becoming less of a blur. “Sorry to disappoint, Commander.”

Jaime stood to dig through a pile of supplies on the lone table near the fireplace, and Brienne registered that he was shirtless. The firelight licked at his shoulder blades and transformed the long line of muscle around his spine into a deep, dark valley. She’d known his shoulders were broad and strong, but perhaps had not previously appreciated enough how narrow his waist was by comparison.

Brienne thought vaguely that her mind must truly be addled, to be thinking such thoughts at a time like _this_.

“Here,” he said when he returned, retaking the chair next to the bed and propping a cup of tepid water up to her lips for her to drink from. “I think it’s been a couple of days. You should drink.”

Jaime didn’t give her much of an option about it. She lifted her head as much as she could, propping herself up on an elbow on her uninjured side. He tipped the cup into her mouth slowly and carefully, gauging her reaction as he did. When she’d swallowed a few times without choking much, he held up a bowl of soup and a hard heel of bread for her as well. It hurt to chew and to swallow, and to move at all, but she did it all anyway under Jaime’s insistent gaze.

When he seemed satisfied with her progress, Brienne allowed her head to fall back onto the bed without a word, trying to recall what had happened to land them there. She could remember staring down a line of Bolton men. The possibility that she might actually _die_ had never crossed her mind so vividly as it had then. She had stuffed all of the team into one land cruiser and demanded that they leave. Then she had turned around to face down the same men who had murdered Ned and Robb Stark as well as several Umbers and Karstarks and so many other bonafide heroes of the Winterfell civil war. What chance could one lone woman with a single blaster have against such formidable opponents?

She did not know the answer, but she knew Jaime was beside her and they seemed to be whole. He could have been well away with the others, but he’d come to stand beside her instead. The stupid, _stupid_ man had risked himself for no reason at all. Brienne knew she would have been of little use on her own, and she knew Jaime was talented with a blaster in hand, but they had been out in the open with no cover--

“Why did you come back?” she said in a scratchy voice.

Brienne chanced a glance up at him, his face a composition of gold and shadow. Jaime had stopped moving where he had taken to completing her bandage change. He leaned away from her on his rickety chair and appeared to be thinking very deeply about his answer.

“I dreamed of you,” he said quietly.

The seconds stretched out before her as Brienne tried to make sense of his words. And maybe a younger version of herself might have kept quiet, stuck in confusing, mortified silence until the subject changed. But instead she thought of her own dream; it was hardly the first time she had Ronnet Connington had featured, but she was no closer to understanding who it was that he said she would never have. The Brienne who had turned and ran from Connington and Hyle Hunt in the ballroom of her nightmares might have shrank away from Jaime’s serious words. She was determined not to be that girl any longer, least of all in his presence.

But her tongue suddenly felt heavy in her mouth and she only managed to say, “I don’t understand.”

Jaime scrubbed a hand over his face and for the first time she noticed how tired he appeared: paler than usual, circles beneath eyes that did not shine as brightly as usually they did, gracefully messy curls more genuinely messy and lank. Even still, his handsomeness seemed to radiate out from beneath.

“If I had left you, I never would have heard the end of it. Another Commander dead on my watch? It wouldn’t have stood.” He didn’t quite meet her eye as he spoke, choosing instead to stare down at the hand in his lap that was not scratching at the overgrown stubble on his chin.

“That’s it, then? You came back to preserve your own reputation?” 

She narrowed her eyes. Brienne knew she was naive; it was not a fact that many men she'd met had allowed her to forget easily. But she was not so naive that she was unable to recognize that there was something unsaid behind Jaime's words. Something that made her skin prickle.

_I dreamed of you_. 

To her surprise, Jaime laughed, though the sound rang bitter and sharp in her ears. “I’m afraid my reputation is well past the point of _preservation_. You’ve said it yourself.”

She frowned. “Kingslayer.” It was not an accusation this time. Just a fact they both knew.

Jaime drew away from her nevertheless. As he did she noticed the bandage wrapped around one hand. It was thickly padded and clumsily wrapped with a circular patch of dried red blood.

“What happened?”

He followed her gaze and lifted his hand up to inspect. “Fairly certain these two fingers are broken." He stretched out his hand with a grimace, as though just to be sure. "Did you know I lost this hand just before this assignment?”

Brienne stared at him. That had certainly not been in his file and he absolutely had not mentioned it before.

Jaime hummed thoughtfully, though his face was strained. "Three weeks waiting on the new one to be ready for reattachment. Three weeks too many for my dear sister. _Repulsive_, she called me." His voice was soft and distant, as though he was not really talking directly toher. "Remind me to tell you sometime, when we’re far away from here.”

Brienne’s eyes lingered on his face before she dropped them and bit her lip. "You should let me redress it." She moved to sit up, instinctively clutching at her sore ribcage as she did. The pain was sharp, but only slightly worse with movement.

“_You_ should stop moving so much. I think you might have a broken rib and I don’t have access to PyGel here. So you’ll have to deal with it and try not to puncture your thrice-damned lung writhing around like that.” His words were clipped, as though her injuries brought him a great deal of annoyance.

“Where is … _here_?” Brienne shifted in her bed as she spoke, trying and failing to find a position that might make breathing feel less painful.

Jaime glanced around and shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine, kid. We’ve been captured, had I not mentioned?” He returned to his ministrations as though he had only informed her of the weather. “We’re lucky they’ve given us food and supplies at all.”

“_Captured_? We can’t have been--what will happen to the crew?”

He chuckled. “You’ve picked a stupid, stubborn lot. I would imagine they’re already out looking for you.”

“Us,” she corrected automatically, giving him a scrutinizing look.

Jaime considered her with a steady gaze. “You’re the one they follow. I’m just the muscle.” His lips tilted upward into a lopsided smirk for just a second before returning his concentration back to her injured body.

She allowed herself a small smile and dropped her eyes to the side. Jaime was running the pad of one finger along the edge of a line of tape he had used to secure the gauze and padding to her skin. His touch was a soft relief to the pain that cleaning and dressing her wound had been. 

When he was content with his work, Jaime tugged down her tunic, and Brienne was suddenly very aware of how exposed she had been to him. It had been one thing at the Academy, where gender boundaries during training exercises had been little more than an afterthought. Sleeping arrangements had often been coed, even if shower arrangements were a little stricter. It was an entirely different sort of thing to feel such an intimate touch on her bare skin. _Jaime’s_ touch. Whatever else he was, Brienne could not deny the magnetic charm he exuded or the craftsmanship of his angular face as though chiseled in the likeness of some ancient god of cheekbones and jawlines. The objectivity of his appeal was perhaps the most annoying thing about him.

There was silence between them for some time, the only sound the cracking and popping of the fireplace. Brienne watched him from the edge of her field of vision. Sweat pooled at his temples, in the hollow of his throat, and glistened against the tanned skin of his chest. Jaime absently fingered the edges of the bandage on his hand and Brienne knew his thoughts were somewhere far beyond the confines of their room.

“Have you been captured before?” Jaime’s voice almost startled her, it had been so long since either of them had spoken. He craned his head over his shoulder to glance at her from where he had been staring into the flames.

“No,” she replied softly.

It was an odd question for Brienne, but she thought that perhaps it wasn’t for Jaime. Her experience with combat was negligible, no matter what awards or recommendations had been written for her. But Jaime Lannister--Brienne doubted that there was a soul in the galaxy who wasn’t familiar with the man. With his feats and his infamy and his father’s name. Whatever she felt about him, there was no denying that the burden he wore was a heavy one. 

_But is it one he deserves?_

She had been mulling over the question for some time, losing more sleep to it than she would ever admit. On far too many nights, she had found herself lying awake trying to put together thepieces of the puzzle of who he actually was. His motivations, beliefs, and history. Just when she thought that maybe she had pinned down one facet, he would say or do something that completely confused her again.

“I have.”

She shifted so that she was facing him better, managing to only wince as she moved. Brienne did not have words for him, but she wanted desperately for him to continue. Her desire to _know_ him was like an especially bothersome itch, relentless and just under the surface of her skin.

But she yet again swallowed the selfishness of that particular need. Instead, she cleared her sore throat and said, “you don’t have to tell me.”

Jaime huffed a joyless laugh but he still was not looking at her. The shadows cast from the fire leapt across his face and exposed torso, and the darkness seemed to suit his mood. “Tell you what, kid? Tell you the horrors I faced on Pike, on Dorne, during the burning of the Riverlands? Everything that uniform has brought me?” 

Jaime pivoted in his seat, toward her and away from the fire. With the light now at his back, his normally vibrant eyes had gone darker than Brienne had ever before seen them. “The Mad King, Commander. They called him _the Mad King_. Does everyone truly forget that just before they condemn me for my actions against him or is it just more convenient to pretend?”

Brienne said nothing. He didn’t seem to want her answer and she would not have had one for him anyway. Perhaps she could have told him how she felt--that his duty had been to the royal family and he should have died there with the king rather than flee. She could not bring herself to do it.

He stood abruptly, cradling his bandaged right hand in his left and pacing circles around the room. Brienne had to avert her gaze once more from the taught pull of the muscles in his chest, the firm ridges of his obliques and abdomen. It was not easy work, and she felt more than a little selfish and ridiculous ogling him while he contemplated what must have been his deepest secrets and innermost thoughts. But she was only human.

After a long stretch, he halted, seeming to sway in place for a second before sinking onto the cold stone floor at the end of her bed. He threw his left arm across it, absently rubbing the fabric of the wool blanket between two fingers. Brienne felt at once entirely too close and not close enough to him.

“_Kingslayer_,” he spat before she could decide whether to shift away. “The Alliance has never had a problem sending me to fight their battles under the guise of peacekeeping. ‘Need a job done, send the Kingslayer, he _doesn’t. give. a. damn_.’” Jaime enunciated the last words in a slow, clipped tone dripping with resentment and sarcasm. “I’ve killed men on damn near every planet in this system, and I’m _good at it_. It’s what got me the position as a bodyguard for the royal family, how I ended up on that bloody ship to begin with.”

Jaime held her gaze for a long minute, his eyes seeming to pierce into her like daggers of pure jade. “Do you know I was nineteen years old? The youngest in a generation to commission into the Marine Corps. There was never a doubt in my mind about what I wanted to do. Who I wanted to be.

“My father hated it, naturally.” Jaime puffed out his chest and affected a deep, commanding voice: “‘_No son of mine will waste his life dragging his knuckles and playing with toy guns_.’” He snorted derisively, but he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was fixed on the far wall. “He and Aerys had gone through the Academy together. Rose through the ranks of Space Corps. Not that either of them had any interest in the Uniformed Services for what it was. All of it was a means to an end. My father left for the Senate as soon as he could and Aerys became king around the same time. I don’t think it took long for _that_ relationship to sour. Aerys drifted further into madness. He seemed to distrust everyone he had ever been close to the most, so my father was no longer able to get from him what he wanted. Naturally, Aerys hand-picked his eldest son for the Kingsguard, close to him and away from my father. I didn't see that then. I was so fucking _proud_.

“The _Dracarys_ was rotten work from the beginning. Aerys had been holed up on his ship for six months by that time, completely out of touch with his own kingdom. He kept me nearby at all times but spoke to his sycophants in whispers I never quite seemed able to make out. He was surrounded by them at all times, and so that was my life for weeks on end. Following Aerys from room to room, watching as he made bad decision after bad decision, spiralling further into madness. His first murders--and make no mistake, they were murders--were swept under the rug, of course. Smallfolk aboard the _Dracarys_. No one of consequence. Just spies, he said.

“Rhaegar was of course a Commander in his own right then, but there were a few days he graced us with his princely presence. Aerys barely trusted even his son and heir enough to let him on the ship. By the time he got on board, though, he knew something was wrong. He managed to pull me away a time or two, telling me how he thought his father could still be reasoned with. Brienne, I was _nineteen_, and Rhaegar was supposed to have been this impressive man, someone who could handle the situation. But I still--even then, I wanted to ask him what he thought _talking_ to Aerys might change. I never did. And I think that maybe--if I had just gone straight to Aerys earlier, if I'd ignored Rhaegar, maybe more people would be alive.”

Jaime fell silent again for so long that Brienne wondered whether he intended to continue. Or at least she would have wondered that, had she been capable of forming coherent thoughts. Her ears seemed to ring with the weight of Jaime’s words instead.

“I remember the day Brandon Stark arrived. We’d met at the Academy. He was one of the only Starks to ever attend, had always been hotheaded and a little violent--I suppose _you_ might say we had that in common--he was a natural marine. But there on that ship… I hardly recognized the man. He begged for his father. Aerys had taken him prisoner for some imagined political reason. His father, you’ll recall, was Rickard Stark--the King of Winterfell at the time.

“Aerys … set the Prince of Winterfell on fire for his troubles. Stark screamed himself hoarse before the flames overtook him. And I _stood there_.” 

If Jaime’s gaze had been distant before, it was even further away now, staring more than a decade into the past. His left hand had resumed tugging at the bandage on his right, as though unaware he was doing anything at all.

“I fear that I will never get the stench of that room out of my nose, the green flames out of my dreams.”

Jaime inhaled a deep, cleansing breath and exhaled just as slowly. “I don’t know how long I stayed awake after that, watching him, waiting for him to come after someone else. Rhaegar left. He promised he was getting people together, that he and I would talk as soon as he returned. I wanted to believe him. It wasn’t just the North Quadrant non-Alliance planets Aerys thought were trying to bring him down anymore. It was the Tullys, the Baratheons, my father… Everyone was coming to get him. We _needed_ Rhaegar.

“It was just the day after he had left that I was into the control with Aerys and a pair of his yes-men. Killing Brandon seemed to have sent him over the edge. He was raving more than usual. _Burn them all_, he kept saying over and over. The plans pulled up on the screen--he intended to fly the _Dracarys _straight into King’s Landing. There was enough wildfire on board to decimate the ship, the city, and everyone in a one hundred kilometer radius.”

Brienne’s chest suddenly felt too small for the swell of emotions that flooded into her heart. She knew what must come next in this story. She knew and she wasn’t so sure she wanted to hear it anymore. But Jaime’s jaw was set with determination and his eyes were closed tight. She wondered if he was seeing it all again, and was surprised by how strongly she wished she could pull him away from it.

“I killed one of his minions and then the other. Aerys didn’t even seem to notice. He just stood by his monitor mumbling about transcendence and burning. He seemed to think that the flames would transform him into ‘the dragon.’"

Jaime tilted his chin up, as though with pride but Brienne thought that he looked like a scared boy who would never admit to his fear. “I faced the king when I killed him. He seemed to think I was my father, kept calling me Tywin, demanding that I _burn them all_. When I opened his throat, he fell to the ground like any other man. No dragon. No resurrection. Just … so much blood. And I--I had never killed a man before.” Jaime’s voice faltered and he swallowed hard. “It’s what I’d been trained to do. I fenced well, I shot well, I flew a ship well. ‘An exemplary marine,’ Arthur Dayne had called me at the Academy. There’s no training manual or simulation for what to do when the man you’ve sworn to protect becomes the enemy. Which oath do you keep, Commander? Does that uniform mean more to you than your crew?”

Jaime wasn’t looking for an answer, but if he had been, Brienne thought she knew what she would have to say. The thought terrified her.

“And yes, most everyone died. That part of the story is true. But it’s _curious_\--” he bit the word out like something poisonous, “--how it’s never mentioned that I brought others with me. I rounded up anyone I could find who wasn’t one of Aerys’ followers, stuck them on my ship, and we got the hell out of there. I tried to come back for more but the ship was just a smoking shell gliding through space. I don't even know how the fires started. But I know who got the blame.” He smiled wryly, dropping his gaze to his lap with what she was fairly certain were unshed tears.

The fire popped loudly, as if on cue. She waited for him to continue, the aching in her head and along her flank nearly forgotten. Anything she might have been feeling was nothing compared to the pain on Jaime's face. He scratched a hand through his hair and blinked hard before standing once more, but still did not quite look at her. He was rummaging around at the table with the supplies stacked upon them and eventually came away with a particularly threadbare sheet. Brienne watched him curiously, but it was not until he spread the sheet out carefully in front of the fire and began to settle down onto it that she realized what he was doing.

He was folding his discarded tunic into a square, ostensibly to use as a pillow, when she said quietly, “There’s room.”

Jaime froze where he was crouched and finally met her eyes, clearer and calmer than she expected. “I…” He sounded as though he meant to object but could not find the words. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

The corners of Brienne’s mouth tilted upward without her permission. She would care for any member of her crew without a second thought, but offering space on her bed to Jaime of all people would have been an absurdity even just a few hours ago. “I’m afraid I’m counting on you to get us out of here and you can’t do that if you aren’t well-rested.”

He didn’t audibly scoff, but Brienne could see the apprehension in the way he pressed his lips together.

“Please. I won’t rest knowing you’re down there while I’m up here.” Then, more gently, “you deserve the rest as much as I do.”

Jaime huffed and shot her a look of annoyance but gathered the sheet and blouse and made his way to the bed. She watched as he sat down gingerly next to her, as though afraid to disturb the bed too much, then stretched out just as carefully. He threw the sheet over them both and lay quietly on his back, his shoulder brushing hers and their hips nearly touching. His body seemed looser than it had before, as though he had just shucked off a great burden. And she supposed he had, though the _why_ of it eluded her.

Just when she had begun to drift off to sleep again, Jaime’s voice broke the silence. “Do you know the worst part, Brienne?” He shifted his head just enough to search her eyes with his. “I don’t regret it. If the gods gave me the chance to do it all over, I wouldn’t change it. I’d open his throat every night for the rest of time." His voice dipped to a low rumble. "Tell me you don’t loathe me now.”

There was only one, clear answer resounding deep within her and the intensity with which she felt it could only have been spoken in a quiet, trembling whisper: “I don’t loathe you at all, Major.”

“Jaime,” he said with finality, “my name is _Jaime_.”


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime Lannister was sound asleep, his face inches from her own and their bodies touching in far too many places at once. As her heartbeat returned to a normal pace, Brienne slowly pieced together the events that had preceded him climbing into the bed. His face, so often drawn in frustration or concentration or spread into a wicked smile, was softer than she had ever seen it. In sleep, all of his sharp angles were smoothed into a peacefulness he did not seem to know how to inhabit during wakefulness. She wondered whether he always slept so tranquilly or if the weight he had unburdened hours before had allowed him some liberation in his dreams.

Brienne was not sure how long she slept, only that it was not long enough. She awoke lying on her uninjured side and with eyelids that felt too heavy to lift open. A soft gust of air puffed rhythmically against her cheek, tickling the loose hair there. Further down, her knee was wedged between someone else’s and her fingers seemed to be resting atop a distinctly masculine bicep. The gust of air gusted again, and this time her eyes flew open.

Jaime Lannister was sound asleep, his face inches from her own and their bodies touching in far too many places at once. As her heartbeat returned to a normal pace, Brienne slowly pieced together the events that had preceded him climbing into the bed. His face, so often drawn in frustration or concentration or spread into a wicked smile, was softer than she had ever seen it. In sleep, all of his sharp angles were smoothed into a peacefulness he did not seem to know how to inhabit during wakefulness. She wondered whether he always slept so tranquilly or if the weight he had unburdened hours before had allowed him some liberation in his dreams.

Brienne initially wanted to pull away from him, but looking upon him now she could not bring herself to disturb him. He had earned every second of silence. So she froze in place and hoped she would be able to at least very slowly move her leg from his if shifted inch by inch. The mortifying concept of Jaime waking up to her tangled up with him made her stomach turn.

But disrupting the serenity of his sleep seemed an even greater sin than how tangled together they were. Jaime had had quite a night. She could bear a little discomfort for him. So Brienne shored up her fortitude and stayed still.

Even in her determination to suffer in silence, she still could not bring herself to look at him. Instead Brienne focused on the fireplace, now just a small flicker of flame, barely alive. She thought for a moment that she could see the shape of a starship in the embers. Watching it glow from orange to red, she wondered if Jaime ever saw shapes, too; whether the flames and the smoke ever took on the shape of ghosts from his past. She could feel the weight of his words still heavy on her shoulders, overwhelmed by the realization that he had been holding these secrets to his chest for so long. Alone.

Jaime Lannister had been an enigma to her just a day or two ago. And while there remained an air of mystery about him, Brienne thought the shape of him was a bit more … _human_.

The humanity she had found beneath his callous exterior was something she felt she could trust. He had proven over and over that he had her back. He had just risked his own life to protect her against overwhelming odds. And when he spoke of Brandon Stark… It all made more sense than she had previously allowed herself to consider. Jaime could not save him, but he could try to save others. The missing young king, Bran Stark. Their crew. Brienne herself. In the new light of his truths and his horrors, Brienne could see him clearly for what he was, and she realized with a dizzying swoop in her stomach that in her eyes, Jaime was not the villain of his story anymore.

Even under the new weight of Jaime’s secrets, Brienne still felt lighter than she had since hearing his name from Stannis Baratheon those long months ago. His confession had lifted something from her too. In his sleeping face she could see the peace she felt reflected back at her. A strand of her loose, long hair fell across his cheek. She brought her hand up toward his face and carefully moved it away. Jaime wrinkled his nose and furrowed his brow at the contact.

Brienne tried to carefully tuck the hair back behind her ear, but Jaime's eyes fluttered open. The dark circles were still pronounced and he seemed a shade of gold paler and dimmer than his usual. But after a second of confusion, sleepy green eyes met her own and Jaime offered her the smallest hint of a smile.

Brienne had time to appreciate the uncharacteristic little expression for only the briefest moment. Jaime's face darkened again and he turned away from her to lie on his back, one long leg sliding off the bed to touch the stone floor below. His stare fixed on the ceiling above. She wondered what he was thinking. Did he regret telling her? Had he only confided in her because of lack of sleep?

It did not matter. She knew now.

"You look better this morning," she tried hesitantly. "Rested."

Jaime snorted. "It's not _my _rest you should be concerned with."

He was right, of course. Brienne’s broken rib still hurt—more terribly if she moved the wrong way or tried to inhale too deeply. She had not had much time to give the situation they had found themselves in much thought, but now it had begun to nag at her. How were they meant to escape when she could scarcely move? Her head felt full of cotton and a throbbing drum beat but not much else. She could only hope that Jaime had used the time she had been asleep to formulate some sort of plan.

While she was thinking, Jaime swung himself out of bed and found his shirt crumpled at the end. He shot Brienne a sidelong glance before slipping it over his head. She looked away quickly, but not before the pull of the muscles in his abdomen and obliques turned her face unreasonably hot.

She couldn’t deny her body’s reaction to him; Jaime was objectively handsome. It was not a fact that anyone who came into contact with him could soon forget. Brienne had always liked to think that she was immune to good looks. She had lived her early life facing near-constant torment for the way she looked. Big Brienne would certainly join the Uniformed Services Big, ugly Brienne was just another officer. Big, ugly, unwanted Brienne was a joke. So she had to see beyond a person’s appearance. She feared that if _she_ couldn’t, what right did she have to feel disrespected when others could not see past her own?

Brienne could at least see that her care for Renly was not predicated on his good looks—though he _was_ good-looking. He was a good man. He had defended her on The Thorn, when the group she had called her friends had held their bet.

It had been Renly to step in, threatening to ruin careers with one call to his elder brother. Brienne had not been meant to hear any of it, of course. Hunt had left his communication device on, again, as the oaf often did. Brienne had heard enough of the conversation to understand what had happened, and she had been certain that the rest of the ship must have heard it, too. She had locked herself away in her quarters for three days afterward, ashamed. Until Renly had called upon her to talk the situation over, Brienne had been resolved to never leave her quarters again.

“_Chin up, Tarth_,” he had told her, sitting on the edge of her bed where she had curled up into a ball, sniffling and snuffling. “_You’re worth ten of each of those bastards_.”

She had smiled a little at that and when Renly had slung his arm over her shoulder, she had felt something. A sort of breathlessness deep inside of her that she supposed must be love. How could it not be? No one had ever held her like that, not even Margaery. During _The Thorn_’s Ancient Westerosi melee in a simulation suite, Renly had cheered the loudest when she had beaten them all into the dirt. His broad smile had warmed her and she had even smiled some in return. But it wasn’t the handsomeness of the smile, she was sure. _That_ was just a secondary feature to his support and his goodness. A bonus.

Even still, she knew Renly was not as handsome as Jaime, even now in the dark, mildewy dungeon of a room she shared with the Marine. The fact that she could look at Jaime and not completely trip over her tongue _must_ mean that his good looks meant nothing to her. The honor she had recently found in him was certainly welcome knowledge; they had to work together, and now she felt she could truly trust him. But it was still Renly she wanted.

“I expect the Boltons will be back soon,” Jaime said, rifling through the supplies on the table. He found a foil food packet and held it up to the dying firelight for inspection, squinting his eyes.

Brienne fidgeted with the edges of the ratty old blanket, trying to keep her breathing steady and painless. “Have they been in often?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. His eyes appeared sharper and more alert than they had been the previous evening, but his face was more relaxed. Brienne was not yet sure what the change in him meant or precisely how it would impact their working relationship. She could only hope that there would be time to deconstruct what she knew and put it all back together later. For now, she would choose to trust him. With her life, with the mission. With all of it.

Jaime tore open the package he’d been holding with his teeth and handed it to her. He took a seat on the stool beside her bed and watched as she hesitantly tipped the contents of the packet into her mouth. She grimaced at the crunch of nuts and seeds against her aching head.

“They bring in food and supplies once a day. Or at least, I assume it’s daily. I have, ah—” he scratched the stubble at his neck, “—not been sleeping much while you were out. One of us had to be awake.”

That much at least had been obvious. He’d been halfway to delirious and swaying where he stood when he’d captivated her with his tale. She wasn’t sure what to say to him though. He had likely spent days awake to protect them; had cared for her while she slept off her injuries. And then he’d told her his deepest, brightest secret. Brienne had a lot to process, but her head only buzzed uselessly.

“What are we going to do?” she asked, her voice smaller than she had meant for it to be. “Do you have a plan?”

“Well.” Jaime took the packet back from her and threw a handful of the contents into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before he answered. “No. Not particularly.”

Brienne grimaced and let her head fall back onto the pillow, her eyes squeezed shut. _This is not going well_.

Jaime chuckled, and the sound would have annoyed her if she wasn’t already preoccupied with mounting despair. “I assure you, kid, I’ve gotten out of much worse situations than this one.”

“_Brienne_,” she corrected with a sigh. Truthfully, she did not mind “kid” quite as much as she once had, but the correction had come out of instinct. It very nearly made her smile, in fact; something from weeks earlier that she could use as a touchstone. _This is temporary and we will survive_, it seemed to suggest.

Jaime was grinning at her when he placed the packet back in Brienne’s hand, but he didn’t say anything. He looked far too much like he was enjoying himself at her expense.

“They’re going to come in again though. It’s always the same two. They each have batons and one wears a blaster. That’s the one who points the blaster at me while the other sets the food down and checks that you’ve not died in your sleep.”

“_Checks_ on me?”

Something passed across his face, a sort of frown laced with some other emotion she did not recognize or understand. “I don’t let them touch you.”

Brienne’s heart seemed to skip a beat. She could imagine two Bolton troops approaching her, cold hands searching for a heartbeat in her neck and checking her all over for signs of a deteriorating condition. It would have made her skin crawl but for Jaime’s words. She wondered exactly what he meant. Did he stand in the way, a physical barrier shielding her from unknown men? Or did he talk his way out of the situation, confident and smooth as she knew he could be?

She turned her head away from him, the implications of it too much for her to consider just now. There would be plenty of time later for contemplating the image of Jaime Lannister standing guard over her bedside, preventing the enemy from coming near her at the risk of his own wellbeing. That was definitely _not_ the current priority.

Jaime was silent, staring at her intently in that peculiar way he had. His golden eyebrows were knitted together, a faint wrinkle in his forehead, and his eyes narrowed. She could see the wheels turning in his mind, could almost hear the shuffling of puzzle pieces. But she had no idea what sort of picture he was trying to create.

_Where does his mind go when he looks that way?_ she wondered.

He cleared his throat. “I was blindfolded when they brought us in, but I could see some of the area from under the cloth. It’s a small outpost, I think. I don’t know how many people they have stationed here, but it’s likely more than the two of us can handle.”

Brienne scoffed. “I can still hold a blaster, Jaime.”

Jaime’s smile this time was slow and genuine. His green eyes twinkled. She waited for the familiar curl of his lip into a smirk, for the cutting remark, but neither came.

“_What_?” she huffed, holding her breath as she struggled to sit up.

He shook his head. “You called me ‘Jaime.’”

Brienne raised her eyebrows even as the pain in her ribcage made her eyes want to cross. “That’s—your name,” she breathed, wincing.

“Yes, but _you_ have never called me by it before.” His tone was light, teasing as though they were truly friends.

“Yes, well. Circumstances change. We’d never been held hostage together before.”

He laughed at that, a sound so bright and clear it stood in sweet contrast to their gloomy surroundings. For just a moment, she felt distracted from the pain of trying to move, watching his face light up.

Before she could fall down that particular rabbit hole, Jaime sobered and straightened his posture. “You squirm too much,” he said, standing.

He leaned over her, his too-long curls sweeping across his forehead. His bandaged hand came to rest on one shoulder gingerly while his other wound its way across her back. His grip was firm but gentle as he assisted her in moving to a sitting position against the cold, damp wall. He was stronger than Brienne imagined he would be. She stretched out her legs and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to find a position that allowed for the easiest breathing. Jaime had one hand pressed carefully to her broken rib, bracing the injury for her.

When she opened her eyes again, she startled to see Jaime’s face so close to her own, concern evident in his brow and tugging at the frowning corners of his lips.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled, settling into the spot. He continued to touch her side. “_Jaime_.”

He stilled, his eyes locked on Brienne’s like a pair of focused green lasers. It absurdly made her want to look away. Jaime was an intimidating man, she had never denied that. But she’d never before felt so intimidated by him, herself. And she wasn’t even sure _why_ he was looking at her that way to begin with.

“I’m _fine_,” she said, sternly this time.

He nodded, leaning away from her and scrubbing a hand over his stubbled face. She did not want to meet his hard stare, which was not a problem because he suddenly seemed to be rather determinedly not looking at her anyway. Instead, he shifted his gaze toward the door, a heavy slab of iron with multiple keyholes.

“Do you know when they’ll be in next?” Brienne asked, trying to fill the heavy silence between them just as much as she wanted to goad him into formulating a plan.

“No. Usually you can hear them banging around before they come in, though. I think there’s a door not far from the other side of this one. It creaks and then a minute later, they’re at our door.” He was still not looking at her—but that was still not what was important.

“Jaime, I—” she bit her lip, unaccustomed to allowing herself to be vulnerable in front of him, “—I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk out of here.”

His eyes slid back towards hers then and he looked—_angry_? Indignant. “A wench as stubborn as you? Don’t even think of it. You survived that attack on _The Thorn_ and you’ve survived, well, me. I won’t hear it.”

“Survived you?” she asked before she could stop herself, dodging his mention of the business on _The Thorn_.

“I’m old enough to know what I’m like, Brienne.”

She exhaled a shaky breath that might have been a laugh, had she the lung capacity for laughter. “Not old enough to do anything about it, it would seem.”

He winced. “I’ve apologized once, are you going to make me grovel at your feet before agreeing to get the hell out of here with me?”

_With me_. The words resounded in Brienne’s mind like the reverberations of a hyperdrive core. Warmth flooded her body, buoying her spirits. She could trust this man. In spite of his often caustic treatment of her and her initial impressions of him, they had at some point become a team. In truth, Brienne wasn’t sure whether either of them would still be alive without the other. What more was she waiting on from him?

“No.” She held his gaze, liquid green in the fading light. “I trust you.”

Jaime’s face relaxed into relief. He nodded, leaned forward, and began to explain to her what he thought they should do.

Brienne was struggling against sleep once more by the time she felt Jaime’s undamaged hand squeezing her shoulder. She startled awake and was immediately met by the sight of him, fully dressed and shoulders squared where he towered over her bed.

“Are you ready?” he asked, concern dancing in his eyes when he shifted them briefly toward her.

Brienne could only grit her teeth and nod. She heard the first door outside of their room clang and keys rattling. Her heart sped up in her chest as she tried to regulate her breathing, willing it to slow. Jaime had picked up on some clues, but in reality they had no idea what might be waiting for them on the other side. The only thing Brienne knew for sure was that her crew was somewhere on the other side. Freedom and safety were on the other side.

_Now or never_.

She slid forward on the bed and as she did, reached for Jaime’s hand. She made contact with his forearm and he spun toward her, surprised. As she struggled to her feet, Jaime pulled his arm down to lace their fingers together and tugged her upward in a swift motion. Brienne swayed on the spot, her vision going black at the edges. Before she could topple, Jaime caught her around the waist and in a second he hauled her forward toward the door.

_Strong hands_, she thought hazily. _Strong and gentle._

“Don’t move until I give the signal,” he said, pressing her into the wall. His grip was hot and insistent, matching the look he gave her.

She nodded and he released her carefully before striding back to the bed.

Jaime leaned against the headboard of the bed, his feet crossed one over the other as though he were just casually waiting for her outside the simulation suite. He watched the door with keen eyes, his uninjured hand tapping an anticipatory rhythm against his thigh. She could hear voices in the hall as she struggled to stay upright. Her stomach churned.

_This cannot work_.

Her body was too tired, too weak, too damaged. They were surely outnumbered and neither of them had much of an idea what might lie beyond the other side of the door. She took a slow, deep breath, fingers pressed to her side. Sweat had broken out on her upper lip and along her hairline.

_Trust_.

She reminded herself again that this plan was built on her trust in Jaime Lannister. It was a position she had not ever wanted to be in at any point in her career, but that had been before she knew him. Really knew him. It was impossible for her not to worry, to consider every terrible scenario that might happen. She had never been able to live her life any other way; always looking out for herself, always having to be the one to think on her feet. But this time, she had to have faith that Jaime would succeed for both of them. So she did.

At once, the door swung open and two people in heavy, dark cloaks swept inside. Their hoods hung low, hiding their faces in shadows. One held in his hands a tray with medical supplies and dusty food packets that looked as though they’d been scavenged from some old Alliance ship. The other held his baton in his hand.

“Gentlemen,” Jaime said, his voice low and husky. “Good … morning? Terribly sorry to say the clock seems to have gone missing from our quarters. You'll want to get your maintenance crew on that as soon as possible, I'm sure.” He kept his eyes trained on the two men as they set out the paltry supplies, ignoring Jaime altogether.

He watched until they edged closer, no doubt to check on Brienne. They would want to make sure she was still breathing and could be used either as a bargaining chip or to extract from her information that she most likely did not have.

As they drew nearer the bed she should be in, Jaime shifted his gaze toward her. He was slowly, inch by inch, straightening out. She knew the ancient sigil of House Lannister was a lion, and that suddenly made perfect sense to Brienne. Jaime seemed to be uncoiling, ready to strike. Just as the two guards reached the end of the bed, Jaime nodded to her once, quick and barely perceptible. Before she could move, he slammed an elbow into the neck of their nearest captor. The man stumbled into his comrade but regained his footing more quickly than Brienne might have expected. As he fell, he grabbed for Jaime and caught onto his shirt sleeve, tugging both of them downward.

Brienne dragged herself from the wall. Strapped around the man’s waist was the blaster pistol. She gave the weapon a swift once-over, just long enough to notice the Alliance logo engraved into the hilt. The blaster that she and her crew normally wore were a different model from this one, but the engraving was the same. She would know it anywhere.

Jaime had his fist bunched into the cloak of the first man, whose hood had fallen off to reveal the face of a man with small eyes and a flat nose. He drew him in close and Brienne thought absurdly that they looked as like to kiss as to fight. But the thought left her mind as soon as Jaime lifted the hand with the broken fingers, squeezed them into the approximation of a fist, and repeatedly connected them with the man's head. The second man was on him in an instant, unfastening the club he wore with one hand and reaching for Jaime's throat with the other.

Brienne struggled forward. She had one part to play: take the blaster. Jaime would be the fighter, the distraction. She just had to get the blaster.

But before she could reach them, the first man landed a punch to Jaime’s jaw and he staggered backward, the backs of his thighs colliding with the rails at the top of the bed. The second man had his club in the air for what seemed the longest half-second of Brienne’s life before he brought it down into Jaime’s abdomen with a sickening _thunk_. Brienne’s own stomach lurched. They still had not thought to look for her and it didn’t seem as though they had called for backup. She and Jaime had surprised them, throwing them off just as much as Jaime had hoped they would.

Brienne crept behind the pair, their backs to her as they attempted to subdue her defense officer. Jaime bent almost double, guarding his stomach with his injured hand and trying to catch the baton with his other. Just as the man with the pistol reached back for it, Brienne caught his hand and twisted. She ignored the shooting pain that radiated out from her injury, lighting up the entirety of her body. Instead she thought of her crew, of the fear on Sansa’s face as they’d escaped the explosion; of Loras’s fierce determination; of Margaery’s steadfast belief in her; of Jaime, right in front of her fighting for their lives.

The attacker whose arm she held tried to spin around. His fingers still stretched toward the blaster that she could see silhouetted under his cloak. The movement only served to tighten Brienne’s grip on his arm and he grunted as Brienne twisted further.

Then Jaime was there. He had grabbed the second man’s baton with his good hand and straightened himself out. Brienne wasted no time in wrenching the blaster free and pressing it into its owner’s back.

"Shoot!" Jaime shouted. "Gods damn it, Brienne, _shoot_!"

Eyes fluttering momentarily, she squeezed the trigger and felt the man fall beneath her. Jaime freed himself of his own attacker and pulled the blaster from her hand. He held it up with a straight arm and steady gaze. The man tried to lunge toward him, but Jaime fired off the shot and he crumpled too.

Brienne turned to gather the supplies they had brought in, hastily creating a makeshift pack out of the sheet on the bed. Jaime was stuffing the blaster into the waistband of his pants, watching her with an odd expression.

“Brienne,” he said quietly. “Are you alright?”

She stilled where she hovered over the little table. “I’m fine.” She _was_, except for the burning ache every time she inhaled or exhaled. Her eyes flitted down his torso. “Your stomach?”

Jaime grazed his fingers over the fabric of his red Marine Corps top where he had been struck. Though he schooled his features quickly, Brienne still registered his pained wince. He shrugged as though unbothered. “It’s nothing. My apologies that you won’t be rid of me quite so easily.”

Brienne snapped her mouth shut before she could say something she didn’t actually mean. She didn’t _want_ to be rid of him. She needed him, in fact. “I didn’t see them sound an alarm, unless they have a system we don’t know about,” she said instead.

Jaime nodded. “We can’t be sure. It isn’t far to the exit, if memory serves.”

Hurriedly, Jaime reiterated what little he knew of the layout of the compound they were in as well as the plans and back-up plans for getting out. She tried not to let it worry her that most of his knowledge seemed to only be when they had taken a left turn and how many footsteps it had been between doorways.

When he was through, he cast her a furtive glance that she refused to return. His worry was beginning to grate on her—not that it wasn’t warranted. It was, in fact, _completely_ warranted—and that was perhaps the most aggravating aspect of it. She had never asked to be a leader, had never especially wanted it, but it seemed that the responsibility always fell on her—or so she had always reconciled it with herself. The nauseating panic she felt at the vulnerability of her situation suggested that perhaps it was something else as well. Perhaps she _wanted _to be in charge, to have control of the situation. She was discovering that she didn’t really know how to fall back, but now she was left with no other option. She would not make it out without Jaime, of that she was certain.

He left her leaning against the far wall and knelt beside the bodies of their captors. She watched as he rolled them from side to side, unceremoniously searching their bodies. He pulled off the batons and two badges that Brienne recognized as Alliance identification cards. The second man had a blaster as well and Jaime took that, too. He was not gentle as he worked and Brienne was glad that it was Jaime and not her. When he had divested them of anything that could be of use, he rolled each back over and left his hand lingering on one of their shoulders while he glanced up at her with a regretful smile.

“You’re not going to like this, Commander.”

Seconds later, Jaime was pulling the roughspun cloak over Brienne's head. His fingertips brushed her throat as they secured the ties of the cloak’s hood, but there wasn’t time to blush. She let him work without resistance or comment even as her heart beat so heavily she wondered how he did not hear it. The cloak was lined and warmer than she expected but with little wet splotches on the sleeves that made her think the guards had come in from the snow. The hood over her head reeked, as though the guard who had been wearing it had not bathed in some time. The smell did nothing for her roiling stomach but she concentrated on Jaime, looking every bit the heroic Jedi in his own hood and cloak.

“Let’s go,” she said as bravely as she could. Her grip was so tight around the blaster pistol that she could feel her pulse in her palms.

“You trust me?” His green eyes searched her blue, darting between them intently, looking for any sign that she might not.

“I trust you.” The words were becoming easier to say.

With that, Jaime took a decisive step forward and hooked his undamaged hand beneath her knees and promptly lifted Brienne up into his arms as though she weighed nothing. She had no choice but to cling to him as he carried them to safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to sdwolfpup for beta reading this! 
> 
> And thank you all, as always, for sticking with it through slow updates. I love this fic but damn is it a heavy thing to write in this year of our lord 2020.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The snow had slowed to a light swirl and the sun was beginning to paint the flinty blue sky with sunset tones when Jaime finally released his grip on Brienne. To the left of the exit, the powder-white ground dropped off suddenly into a sea of snowy trees. In spite of everything, Brienne could still appreciate the picturesque beauty of the scene. She could see nothing but brown trees blanketed in white until it all melded together into a foggy, blue-steel backdrop. An outcropping of large, smooth boulders hugged one side of the cliff, and Jaime followed her between a pair of them. She sank down carefully onto the pebbled ground, the only place within view that the wind had not been able to blow the snow.
> 
> "Are you alright?" she asked breathlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some space babble in here that may or may not be exact science. Please consider indulging me by just rolling with it :)

The snow had slowed to a light swirl and the sun was beginning to paint the flinty blue sky with sunset tones when Jaime finally released his grip on Brienne. To the left of the exit, the powder-white ground dropped off suddenly into a sea of snowy trees. In spite of everything, Brienne could still appreciate the picturesque beauty of the scene. She could see nothing but brown trees blanketed in white until it all melded together into a foggy, blue-steel backdrop. An outcropping of large, smooth boulders hugged one side of the cliff, and Jaime followed her between a pair of them. She sank down carefully onto the pebbled ground, the only place within view that the wind had not been able to blow the snow.

"Are you alright?" she asked breathlessly.

Jaime grinned his best crooked, nonchalant grin, but the effect was dampened by a rapidly purpling left eye and a split lip. "I appreciate your concern, kid, but it isn't me you should be worried about." He inclined his head toward her body. "Still breathing?"

Brienne _giggled_.

Her eyes went wide and she promptly sealed her lips shut tight, but the sound was already out and hanging between them. She wasn’t particularly humored by their situation, but the relief of returning to the open silence of the surface had bubbled out of her mouth without any expectation. The aches, the fog, the fear, and the exhaustion faded into the background and the only thing she knew in that moment was unfettered, weightless relief.

"What's funny?" Jaime was half-smiling uncertainly.

“I just can’t believe we made it out of there.”

“Your faith in me is overwhelming.” He gave her a dry look and let the pack he’d stuffed with supplies slide from his shoulder. His whole body seemed to wince when the pack landed in his damaged hand, but he hid it quickly and dropped the bag to the ground.

“You should let me look at that.”

“I've had worse. How’re the broken ribs?”

"Good enough." She pressed two fingers to the aching place in her side. The PyGel injector Jaime had found while scouring the abandoned bunker was just enough to patch up one injury well enough. She'd tried to fight him on who should use it, adamant that she could carry on just fine; his regrown hand was worth more than her momentary comfort. She’d been passionate in her argument, chest rising and falling heavily—until she felt the stab at her lung, knocking the breath out of her in an instant. Jaime had taken that as his moment to strike. He had eased her to the ground, running his fingers hesitantly along the hem of her shirt.

"This isn’t just cracked, Commander. It’s broken, and you know it. You’re going to slow us down," he'd said firmly, gripping the fabric with intent.

She'd hated to agree with him even as his hand—newly regenerated and likely more drag than he would ever tell her—was several different shades of red and purple. He was treating her like a fragile, helpless thing and she wanted to be irritated. She _was_ irritated. Jaime Lannister was stubborn, but Brienne knew she could’ve easily won against him in a battle of wills if her head hadn’t been pounding and her breathing had been more than tiny, painful gasps. So she relented and Jaime had at least been gracious enough to not look smug about it.

It had been an odd feeling, PyGel. Tingling and burning and making her a tiny bit nauseous as it created a temporary fix to the fractured bones in her side. But after only moments, she could breathe easily again and the pain had dissipated tremendously.

It had at least been enough to get them out.

Now crouching within the shelter of the snow-capped old rocks, Brienne squinted out into the distance. She hadn’t expected to be here when she’d accepted the position as the commander of _The Wall_. Either she’d been much more naive about the situation just a few short months ago, or circumstances had become much more inflamed a lot more quickly than she’d realized. It weighed heavily on her chest. The Alliance had brokered the deal with Sansa and Winterfell to protect them while they rebuilt, while a sense of balance was restored. Brienne had rarely ever felt closer to the brink of total failure. But she didn’t have time to think about that, not when the Boltons could return at any moment.

When she turned back toward Jaime, he was poring over the scrap of an old map he’d found while scavenging for supplies. It seemed rather outdated. There were entire towns that had fallen during the rebellion and simply ceased to exist. The Boltons had been ruthless in their attempt to seize power and the Starks nearly as determined and desperate in their defenses.

Jaime looked up at her with a pained attempt at a smile. “Ready?”

Brienne took a deep breath—the first she’d managed in days—and gave him a small nod.

She could feel his eyes on her as she climbed slowly to her feet. They both glanced around them, ensuring peace was still in the air. All Brienne could hear was the faint whistle of wind whipping around empty tree branches below. She didn’t know how much Jaime had in the pack or how far they were from the nearest town, but what else could they do? Trudge on. That was the only answer Brienne Tarth had ever known in her life.

The trek down toward the treeline was a steep and slippery ordeal. The patches of ice were difficult to spot in the darkness, even with the light from Moon Cailin transformed the ground into a glittering white shroud. At one point Jaime had slipped and Brienne had had to reach out to catch him under one arm before he tumbled the entire way down. He’d given her a rare apologetic smile before extricating himself from her grasp and carrying on downward.

By the time they entered the expansive, silent forest, another layer of Brienne’s anxiety had melted away. The trip down had been open and she’d felt exposed. The trees were at least pleasantly confining. At least there they might be able to take cover if their enemies decided to make an appearance.

They had been walking for a while when Jaime asked her to tell him about Tarth. Without looking at her, he stepped over a tree root and his worn leather boot was swallowed whole into the snow.

Brienne raised her eyebrows with surprise. She studied him as they walked. His face was neutral and his shoulders were relaxed, but he still kept his hand tucked close to his body.

"They call it the Sapphire Isle, I believe?" He did glance over at her then, his eyes questioning and genuine.

Brienne felt a flash of shame; he had been trying to get past the walls she’d erected around herself for some time and she had not wanted to believe him. Margaery had even told her that he was making an effort to be a better partner-in-command and still she had found it difficult to believe Jaime Lannister could be anything but vile. She felt now like she was meeting him for the first time. An easily bristled man who had traded the best part of himself to the realm in exchange for … well, nothing at all. The thought of how long he’d held that secret inside of him made Brienne’s stomach clench uncomfortably.

“I thought that was knowledge restricted to native Islanders.” She tried to flash him a smile, but the result felt forced.

“I did occasionally pay attention to geography at the Academy.”

Brienne’s lip twitched at the corners, almost successful. “And you passed, I hope? Should I be trusting you to lead us through the wilderness?”

Jaime stopped in his tracks, his breath forming clouds of vapor that swirled in the air around them. “I thought _you _were leading us.”

Brienne's mouth rounded into a surprised _O_ and she blinked several times as the implications of what he’d said rushed into her. “Why in the world would you think that? You had the map!”

Jaime pressed his lips together, his eyes glinting. “You’re too easy, Tarth.”

_Oh_. _Oh, of course_. “You were joking.”

Crinkles formed at the corners of his eyes when he grinned. "We _should _make sure we're going the right direction. It’s too easy to get lost when every tree looks the same.”

Brienne tilted her head upward toward the night sky. They were light-years from Westeros Prime, and yet the stars looked much the same. She'd learned the subtle differences at the Academy, though. The Crone’s Lantern was directly overhead on Winterfell, whereas on their home planet, the light of the lantern shone just to the south.

But brighter than all the rest twinkled the Northern Star—a blue sapphire set against inky blackness. Far from their solar system but magnificent in size, the Northern Star could be relied upon from the surface of any of the Westerosi planets. Brienne kept her eyes fixed upon it for some time, wondering how many generations of Tarths and Lannisters and the whole lot of mankind had done just this. She wondered whether the stars had gone out during the Long Night; it seemed impossible that such a light could have ever been dimmed, could ever have been anything but a saving grace.

Brienne inhaled deeply, overwhelmed momentarily by it all. When she finally broke her upward gaze, she turned her eyes back to Jaime and found him staring at her, his eyes wide and glowing even in the relative darkness. In spite of the cold, warmth pooled low in her belly, flowing outward into her fingertips, down into her toes, up her neck and all the way to her frostbitten nose and ears. It pricked at her eyes and tugged at her lips, pouring out of her in a too-bright smile. If she would have thought about it in the moment, Brienne would have been unable to distinguish whether the feeling had been brought on by the stars looking upon her or Jaime himself.

Jaime leaned forward slightly before taking a step, as though drawn toward her on a puppet’s string. His boots crunched in the frozen crust of snow between them. He reached up his good hand and Brienne held her breath while her smile faltered with uncertainty. Jaime met her eyes, allowing them to slide down toward her mouth. His hand hovered so close to her face that she could feel the heat radiating from beneath his worn leather glove.

He blinked rapidly several times before hastily turning his eyes toward the ground. If Brienne didn’t know better, she might have thought he looked embarrassed. His hand fell to his side.

"The Northern Star," he said quietly. "What was it that old Targaryen playwright said about it?”

Brienne tilted her head slightly, trying to make sense of the moment. The look he’d given her… And then he’d raised his hand as though he meant to touch her face. She wasn't sure yet what to make of that.

Brienne took a breath. “_But I am constant as the Northern Star, of whose true fixed and resting quality there is no fellow in the firmamen_t,” she recited while Jaime searched her eyes, like he saw the words in her more than he heard them.

She was reminded of how, once upon a time, the people of Westeros hadn’t known the heavens as Brienne did now—or even as she had just as a child learning about the movement of planets and stars in school. _How romantic_, Brienne still sometimes caught herself thinking. _To only know the stars through poetry._

But the old Targaryen poet had been wrong, and so had the general he had written about. The stars were not fixed. Not one of them was truly constant. And like the stars, like the general who had been killed by his own men—no man could be either.

She held Jaime’s eyes for several long seconds, considering him. She had truly never met a man like him before, of that she was at least certain. Then his eyes fluttered shut slowly and he drew a breath as though to steady himself when he opened them again, pressing forward so that Brienne had no choice but to follow. “I never cared for poetry,” he said at last, a quiet grumble.

“Not even the dramatic sort with war and politics and intrigue?”

Jaime snorted. “What have I ever said to you that might suggest I have any interest in politics and intrigue?”

“Well, you seem rather embroiled in all of it. And your father _is_ Tywin Lannister.”

“Do you think I enjoy any of that?” His tone was softer than usual, much softer than his choice of words. “I’d as soon find a warm spot on a remote planet far away from any of this. But here I am. On bloody freezing Winterfell.”

Brienne winced. “You must like something about it. How long have you been with the Marine Corps? You could have left a long time ago.”

“What else is there for me to do, Brienne?” He shook his head. “There’s no place for soldiers who kill their king. It was only by the skin of my teeth and family connections I’d rather I didn’t even have that I wasn’t thrown in a prison cell for it in the first place.”

Brienne nodded. She couldn’t understand—not really—but she thought that she could feel his pain and frustration. Could accept it. “You lead well, Jaime. Your troops are fortunate to have you.”

"If I had my comm I'd make a note of that. Commander Brienne Tarth at twenty-one hundred hours, thirty two minutes on the fourth day of the tenth month delivered to Major Jaime Lannister one compliment." His grin in her direction reflected the moonlight back at her so brilliantly that her breath caught in her throat at the sight of it.

_A smile made for kissing._

It was as though the quiet night and their own freedom had turned a key and opened a door she’d been keeping tightly shut. Just long enough for the thought to escape and flit across her mind before she could shove the door closed again. What was on the other side—Jaime’s smiles and gentle hands and encouraging words—terrified her more than she was prepared to think about.

She could feel her face heating against the cold evening air, likely as deeply red as his Marine Corps shirt. Jaime’s expression turned quizzical, but she couldn’t trust her mouth not to betray her thoughts so she kept silent.

“And what about you? I’m guessing you’re the poetry sort.”

“Because I’m a woman?” she said, unable to keep the slight edge out of her voice.

“Because you can quote it on the spot,” he said with a chuckle. “What sort of poetry do you like, Brienne? I wouldn’t peg you for Jenny and the Prince of Dragonflies. Too tragic. Duncan the Tall, perhaps? All that stern, noble goodness.

“No,” he hurried on in a low tone before she could say anything. “No, you’re the Blue Knight. A thorn in every man’s side.”

Brienne stopped in her tracks, not quite irritated but somewhere in the vicinity of feeling a little stung. "Is that where we stand? After all of this, I'm still a thorn in your side?”

Jaime placed a hand on a nearby tree and a bird sitting on the branch above his head fluttered away into the night, snow drifting down around him to land atop the hood he wore. "Of course not," he began, sounding weary. "Brienne, I—you must know that I—"

"Wait." Brienne held up a hand and Jaime's mouth snapped shut although there was something crestfallen in his eyes. She stepped toward him, slow and cautious steps punctuated by the crunch of snow. "Did you hear something?"

Jaime shook his head but said nothing. She would have to think about the sorrowful look in his eyes later. She heard it again, a short distance away but obscured by trees. People talking. Her hand went to the pistol buried beneath the rough wool cloak at the same moment as Jaime's went to his own. Their eyes locked for just a brief second. As though on unspoken command, they pulled their weapons from their holsters and crept forward, his shoulder pressed against her own. The footsteps grew nearer and whispers floated on the wind ahead of them.

“Bolton men?” Jaime murmured.

“It doesn’t _sound _like them.” The Boltons rarely seemed to talk at all, if ever, as if _creepy _was what they aimed for.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Jaime’s answering nod. As with every occasion before, knowing that they were on the same page buoyed her strength to press onward. They kept their pistols up, ready for anything.

Around the corner of a cluster of trees, Brienne spotted first a tall man with coppery hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He and the group behind him were dressed in motley: some in cloaks, some in proper coats, some in hardly anything at all. The lead man wore a patch over one eye and had the appearance of a person who had once been much stronger, much more dangerous in the recent past. But something had withered him. The hollows of his cheeks were sunken in and tired purple bruising painted the skin beneath his eyes. Still, there persisted about him an aura of steely determination about him that put Brienne ill at ease.

The group halted in front of them. Though no one drew a weapon, Brienne made note of an assortment of primitive firearms on their hips. Each party faced one another in tense silence broken only by the sound of feet shifting in the crunchy snow.

“You’re searching for Bran Stark,” the man at the front said at last.

Brienne felt Jaime look at her more than she saw him, deferring to her leadership. “Yes,” she said. “You’re loyal to the Starks?” Her eyes flitted around the group of them, searching for some insignia or flag. Anything to tell her how much she could trust them, if at all.

“We are loyal to what’s right,” said a young woman from the back, tall and ivory with a dark braid down her back. “We follow no man’s name.” The copper-haired man inclined his head with agreement, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

To Brienne’s left, she heard Jaime snort and she kicked at his leg as she took a step forward, lowering her pistol as she did. “We’re with the Alliance, from the space station in orbit around Winterfell. We mean no harm.”

“We’ve heard of you,” the man with the red hair said in a tone that was decidedly less than friendly. His face was hard and the sentiment was mirrored in the group that surrounded him.

“Not fans of the Alliance, I take it?” Jaime said loftily.

“Stop talking,” Brienne hissed but he only shrugged by way of acknowledgement. “We’re only trying to get to the next village with transporter capabilities. Can I ask your name?”

The dark-haired woman gripped the man in the front by the bicep, pulling him slightly towards her. She whispered in his ear and cast furtive glances toward Jaime and Brienne.

Jaime huffed impatiently at her side and Brienne shot him a sideways glare. For all she could see him in a new light, for all he had unburdened, he was still Jaime: impertinent and impatient.

There seemed to be a ripple of disagreement in the group, but their voices were pitched just low enough that Brienne could not make out what they were saying. At last the red-haired man shook his head and shrugged off the woman’s hand.

“Beric Dondarrion. This is … the Brotherhood.”

Brienne watched the single woman in the group roll her eyes and felt a pang of sympathy. The Alliance had made tremendous strides toward inclusivity in recent decades, but many of the day-to-day work environments were still quite the men’s club. _The Thorn_ had had so few women—or even kind men—aboard that Brienne had nearly isolated herself with only Renly for the occasional company. It had disappointed her a bit, the way even paternalistic Davos Seaworth had not seemed to notice the sort of men he oversaw. She thought she could understand, on some level, just what the woman of the Brotherhood was feeling.

“Brotherhood?”

“We protect the smallfolk.” Beric bowed his head toward Brienne. “From the Boltons, from the Starks, from the Alliance…” His eye shifted toward Jaime. “From Lannisters.”

Brienne raised her eyebrows at that—_does this man know our names?_—but Jaime scoffed, apparently unfazed. “I assure you no Lannister before now has ever had any interest in setting foot on this frozen pile of rocks.”

Dondarrion’s blue eye blazed hot enough to melt the snowpack around their feet. “I’ll caution you to hold your tongue, Ser.”

Jaime took a step forward, his jaw clenched and grip tightening on his pistol. Before he could do something terribly rash, Brienne caught him forcefully around the chest, holding him in place. He scowled beneath his low-set golden brow.

“_Stop_,” she said again, hoping her voice was just quiet enough that only he could hear. “Do you trust me to handle this or don’t you?”

To her surprise, Jaime flinched and his lips parted open, smoothing the angry angles of his face. “Of course I trust you,” he whispered, hurt creeping in at the edge of his voice.

Brienne’s stomach fluttered more pleasantly than the situation at hand called for, but she held her composure. She touched her hand to his good one where it clutched the laser pistol, just a brief reassurance. “Then let me handle this. And keep yourself in check.”

Jaime dropped his eyes from hers and she could feel the warm puff of his breath against her cheek as he sighed. He even looked a little chagrined. He nodded once, stiff and reluctantly compliant.

Brienne gave him a tight-lipped smile of appreciation and turned back to face the Brotherhood. Not a single face seemed welcoming. More than one pair of eyes was looking Jaime over with a wary sort of interest. But Beric Dondarrion’s gaze was upon Brienne, intense and focused.

“Bran Stark is only a child. His family misses him, and Winterfell needs him.”

“Bran Stark is where he needs to be.”

Brienne narrowed her eyes. “You’ll forgive me for thinking that sounds rather ominous. You know where he is?”

“Winterfell isn’t under Alliance jurisdiction, last we heard.”

Brienne’s answering laugh was sudden and short, disbelieving. She’d really had enough of this. “He’s a _boy_. He’s _lost_. We’re here at the request of Winterfell’s leadership to aid in reconstruction. Surely you wouldn’t conceal his whereabouts from his family.”

“Easy, killer,” Jaime chided over her shoulder, amusement plain in his voice.

Dondarrion, on the other hand, didn’t seem moved to an emotion of any sort by her words. The hard line of his mouth tilted downward into a barely perceptible frown. “For his family, I’ll tell you he’s safe. I knew his father the king, and I know the lady Sansa to be a young woman of goodness and decency. Assure them he’s safe, but we have no control over when he’ll return.”

_How the hells am I supposed to assure them when you’ve done nothing to assure **me**?_ Brienne wanted to shout, but she could feel Jaime’s presence at her back and bit back the fight she felt brewing.

“We’ll tell them.” She could promise that much, at least, even if she didn’t understand any of the rest of what was going on just yet. They were in no position to press their luck at the moment anyway.

Jaime cleared his throat. “Can you help us get to the nearest transporter? We were separated from our crew.”

Dondarrion roved his one good eye over Jaime before flicking over to Brienne. “Aye. But I would advise against any further attempts to reach the Stark boy. His family wants him, I’m sure. But Winterfell needs him. Humanity needs him.”

“_Dramatic_,” Jaime mumbled against Brienne’s ear, but when the Brotherhood pressed forward, he followed behind alongside her without further word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm sort-of, kind-of devoting NaNoWriMo to making progress on this fic, I actually have reserve chapters written! But I wouldn't expect another update until at least the end of November.
> 
> The old Targaryen playwright is a stand-in for Shakespeare and the poem Brienne quotes is, of course, from "Julius Caesar."
> 
> Tremendous thank you to SDW for making me get what was an absolute mess of a chapter (my words not hers) into good working order. This would have been so unreadable without her good influence :)


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress is made.

“Does no one in this frozen wasteland own a ship? A truck, even?”

“They’ve said we’re not far.” Brienne wasn’t even sure she believed that, but she _wanted_ to believe it. The cold had long ago permeated her bones and she was quite ready to be through with it, but Jaime didn’t need to know that.

“I don’t trust them.”

“You know they can probably hear you.”

“Do you think they don’t know that already? They don’t trust us either.”

The men and singular woman of the Brotherhood were staked out in hardy tents not far from the crevice in the side of the hill they’d offered to Jaime and Brienne for the night. The dark-haired woman had sniggered at that, calling them pampered Southern quadrant folk—referring to their upbringing on Westeros Prime, where the climates were warmer. Brienne hadn’t realized that living as a group of nomadic ex-soldiers made the Brotherhood immune to the cold, but she wasn’t going to argue that point. They’d taken the cave without comment.

Fatigue had caught up with Brienne and even the bedroll she shared with Jaime on the cold, uneven cave floor seemed a comfort after what her body had been through. She thought she’d be ready to sleep as soon as she was down, but she was maddeningly awake. Glancing at him sidelong, she could just make out that Jaime was staring out at the clear night sky and drumming his undamaged fingers on his stomach atop the blanket.

Years into the future, when Brienne would think back on this night, she would still be unable to understand why she asked exactly what she did. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or the sudden, intense degree of intimacy they’d shared. It could have just been the faraway, almost sad look on Jaime’s face as he looked out at the stars. _Repulsive_, Jaime had told her his sister had called him. Watching him now with stars reflecting in his eyes, Brienne wondered how anyone who’d truly known him—anyone who’d loved him—could ever believe such a thing.

Whatever the cause, Brienne opened her mouth and said, “Do you miss her?”

Jaime’s fingers stilled their beat against his abdomen, and for several long moments that was the only indication that he had heard her question at all. In the silence, Brienne tried to think of a way to pluck the words from the air and shove them back into her thoughtless mouth, perhaps next time willing them to stay put. Her stomach twisted, hoping she hadn’t crossed a line when they had already revealed so much of themselves.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered when enough time had gone by that it seemed Jaime would not acknowledge her. “I don’t—It wasn’t my place—”

“Stop,” he said wearily.

Brienne had her eyes shut tightly against her own embarrassment so she heard rather than saw him move his hand back beneath the moth-bitten blankets to rest atop her own. She shivered at the contact of his icy hand against her own.

“The answer is no, and it’s been no for longer than I’d realized.” He turned his head slowly toward her and she could barely see his face in the darkness of their little cave. “You can ask me anything you like and I’d tell you the truth.”

Brienne could feel herself blush. “I don’t know why I asked. It really isn’t my business.”

Jaime was quiet again, and so was the little Brotherhood encampment outside the cave. “Then ask me something else. I think I must enjoy talking to you, even if you are a self-righteous bull of a woman.”

Brienne glared, but when Jaime answered with a flash of white teeth, he squeezed her hand too.

“Alright,” she said primly. “What’s something you miss about home?”

Jaime’s smile drooped slightly but he didn’t let go of her. The silence this time seemed more thoughtful, less terrifying to Brienne. While he was considering his words, he brushed his thumb over the back of her index finger, along the side of it, then down around the scoop between her own thumb and forefinger. He didn’t seem to be aware he was doing it, but the sensation made the hair on Brienne’s forearms stand erect.

But then he sighed and shifted beneath the blanket and took his touch with him. “I wanted to tell you something nice, something untainted, but all I see when I close my eyes is Tommen.”

She didn’t need to ask to know who Tommen might be. She could hear a familiar sadness in his voice, the sort that only a man without his child could ever inflect. She’d heard it often from her own father after Galladon had died. But Jaime’s son wasn’t dead, as far as she knew.

“Do you…” She chewed at the inside of her lip, hesitant to push much more. “Would you like to tell me about him?”

“I’ve never really talked about him before. Not like this.”

Brienne wasn’t sure how to respond to that, but she was patient. Fatigue did not do justice to how absolute her exhaustion was but even still, she thought she could keep her ears open all night listening to Jaime if that was what he needed. He’d spent so much of his own time and energy caring for her, the least she could do was stay awake a bit longer. So Brienne kept quiet, hardly daring even to move. He didn’t have to tell her anything. She would never make him. But she did want to know. She wanted to know him.

“Tommen is ten and he’s easily the kindest boy I’ve ever met. Gods only know where he gets it. He reads so well and so often, and every time I see him he begs me to read him the tale of The Cat in the Castle even though it must be well below his level by now. I read it to him once when he was still very small and I guess it imprinted. Uncle Jaime must be forever tied to some silly children’s book about a cat in his mind.

“And I’d prefer it, I think,” he rushed on. “There are so many things he could think of when he sees me. Terrible things—the rumors, the truths. It’s… _nice_ to have someone who always seems pleased to see me. Who just wants me to show him how to work the controls in my ship and read him stories. He’s too good, Brienne, too good to even comprehend someone like me. He’ll find out one day, I’m sure, and I only hope it won’t ruin him.”

“You sound very proud of him.”

“I am,” he agreed, and his voice was overflowing with such warm pride that Brienne knew then that there would be no closing the floodgates that had opened.

Every bright, warm, confusing feeling she’d ever felt in Jaime’s presence suddenly made sense. Affection. Oh gods, it was _affection_. For her co-worker—for a Marine. For _Jaime Lannister_. She simultaneously wanted to storm out of the cave and into the night, taking her feelings for him with her, somewhere far away where he could never find them—and she also wanted… Well, she wanted to move closer, to pull him into her arms and tell him he was safe with her, that his secrets and his goodness and his pride and his love were all safe with her.

“He could come to _The Wall_, you know,” she suggested instead, once some of her shock had worn off and her tongue had remembered how to move again.

“He could,” Jaime mused, staring out toward the stars again. “I don’t even know that he’s mine, and I wouldn’t want to prove it. The Targaryens still marry one another, but Father never saw it that way and nor will these Northerners.” The sweetness of his voice had an edge of bitterness to it, but it mellowed when he spoke again. “But Cersei is remarrying and she’s not one to keep around old playthings, so our father has Tommen.”

“Oh. Oh, Jaime, I’m sorry.” _How does one commiserate with the object of one’s affections about the impending marriage of his sister-lover?_ Brienne had never learned about that at the Academy or even from her romance novels, though the last week with Jaime had been quite an education.

Jaime huffed a laugh. “Don’t apologize to me, I’m the only lucky one in this arrangement.” Another pause, and he seemed ill at ease. “She’s— Brienne, I was cruel to you the night we met. I was angry about Cersei and angry that my father was leveraging Tommen against me. He knows I care about Tommen and that I’d agree to a mission to the surface of the Sun to keep him safe. But you were right that I was drunk. I drank the whole way from Westeros Prime and you were the first person I saw. It isn’t an excuse but … it’s not something I regularly do and it won’t happen again.”

Brienne considered that. She’d known from the start that Tywin Lannister had hand-selected Jaime for _The Wall_, but what she still didn’t understand was _why_. It seemed that Jaime didn’t either, but perhaps the answer was as simple as _that he could_. It made Brienne shiver.

She found, too, that while she might have thought that she didn’t need any more of Jaime’s apologies, this one lifted a little weight from her that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying around. He was so much easier to forgive than she’d ever imagined when she’d met him months earlier.

As if he had read her mind, Jaime pressed on, “I’ve been on my own for a while now, but I thought I’d miss her more than this. Things are better this way, though.” He paused, the sound of it heavy in the frigid air. Then she could see the shine of his teeth as he slowly grinned. “I wouldn’t have met you.”

“Shut up,” she said reflexively, but his remarks weren’t as biting as they once had been—they weren’t biting at all, in truth. It hadn’t been long ago that his teasing had been worth no more to her than an eyeroll, but now it made her… curious. It was difficult with him, to know what was said in jest and what was said in earnest. He was too good at concealing one as the other.

“I mean it,” he said seriously, erasing all doubt. “This isn’t where I thought I’d be, but—you really believe in the Alliance.”

“Don’t you?”

“Allegiance at the point of a laser pistol doesn’t feel so much like cooperation when you’ve been the one holding the pistol.”

Brienne inhaled deeply and the cold burned her lungs. She’d spent her life following after her brother. When her hand had still been small enough to fit inside of his, she’d followed him out to the cliffs above the sea on Tarth and Galladon had pointed out to her every star and planet and space station he knew. Later, she’d retraced their footsteps and looked up at the sky wondering if one of the blinking lights far overhead belonged to the _Just Maid_.

She’d felt alone without her brother’s hand to hold or his light overhead, and so she’d followed his footsteps again, out into space, and headfirst into a good cause. Their shared last name sewn into her Alliance uniform was the last piece of him she had. She wasn’t ready to have that taken away from her.

"It isn't actually at the point of a pistol though, is it? The Alliance leaves alone any government that doesn't want to participate."

"The _leaders_ of governments invite us here. But what about the people? Do you think Bear or Bert or whatever that one-eyed crow out there is called wants us here? That old woman Nan from the first village? Any of them?"

“They need our help. The Boltons clearly have help from someone, it’s only right that the smallfolk have protection too.”

Jaime sighed and scratched his nails across his scalp, sending short springs of blonde hair in all directions. “We’re both exhausted. This seems like a conversation for another time. Now—” he closed the distance between them under the blanket, wrapped his arm around her waist, and buried the freezing tip of his nose in the loose hair that had gathered at the nape of her neck, “—come here before we both freeze our balls off.”

Brienne tensed from her shoulders to her toes. “Jaime, I—”

“—haven’t got any balls, yes, I’m well aware. There’ll be time for your pedantry later, Tarth, now go to sleep.”

She hadn’t actually known what her protest was going to be. _Don’t touch me, I find you repulsive?_ That certainly hadn’t been true for quite some time. _Don’t touch me, I’m afraid I’ll enjoy it too much?_ She shivered at how clearly that chord struck and hoped Jaime would only think the shiver came from the warm hold he had wrapped her up in.

She lay awake another few minutes, feeling oddly pleasant in spite of everything, until she could not hold her eyes open any longer. When she slept, she did not dream.

—

Back on _The Wall_, the artificial sun had yet to begin its ascent across the window in Brienne's quarters when she awoke on her first day back on regular duty. It was not like her to luxuriate in bed after her alarm had sounded, but on this particular morning, luxuriate she did. The concave ceiling provided little by way of entertainment, yet her thoughts continued to drift to the events of the preceding week.

She’d never been taken captive before, and the reality of it hadn’t hit her until she had been sitting in the sick bay letting Quentyn Martell inject her with more regenerative PyGel. He was a nervous and shy young doctor, but determined. Perhaps it was that she could feel a kindredship with him, or just that she could not hold it in any longer, but it had been while his fingers were pressed to her damaged ribs that she’d started crying. Doctor Martell’s doe eyes had gone wide and he’d jumped back from her as though she’d caught fire. Reassuring him that he’d not hurt her, that her tears really had nothing to do with him, had only proven even more exhausting.

So she’d buttoned up her feelings again and stowed them away until she could be alone again.

She was alone now.

But the moment had passed.

All she felt _now_ was a hollow ache in her chest and some foggy confusion. She thought she’d made all the decisions that Captain Seaworth would have. She’d been willing to be captured for the good of her crew, for the good of the mission and the boy they were meant to be searching for. But she couldn’t help feeling that she’d come back empty-handed, and with it came the nauseating emptiness she felt now.

Bran Stark was still missing.

Ramsay Bolton was still at large.

That poor, young Marine who’d tried to dance with Sansa. Brienne had not been terribly kind to him, but she’d never imagined… Well, it was too late for that now. He was gone.

Brienne inhaled deeply and squeezed her eyes shut. It would be so much easier to just _cry_, to release all of her frustrations, but instead her eyes remained dry and her stomach in knots. And still, having returned with Jaime from their failed mission the day before, Brienne had not made time to talk to Sansa about the Brotherhood or what they’d learned of Bran. She would need to, even though the guilt of her failure threatened to swarm up her throat. The bitterness of it burned at the back of her tongue, leaving a vile taste in her mouth.

A mechanical clock on the far wall of her quarters ticked the seconds away, and so Brienne made her choice. There would be no catharsis, no fresh perspective, and certainly no _answers_ in her bed. She kept her eyes closed another moment, matching the rhythm of her breathing to the ticking of the clock. She could hear Davos’s gentle voice reminding her of the importance of routine. So she swung herself out of bed and opened her eyes again just as her toes touched the cool tile floor.

Brienne tried, with only marginal success, to force her clouded thoughts to clear as she made her way to the Crossroads Cantina. Asha was behind the bar this morning, scrolling on her media reader. Her short-cropped dark hair was pushed back with a headband and her face was flushed.

“Welcome back, Captain,” she said with a grin as Brienne approached.

“_Commander_.”

Asha snorted and leaned across the bar toward her. “Same difference from my point of view. What can I do for you, Brienne? Peanut butter shake, extra peanut butter, strawberries on the side?”

Brienne smiled a little nervously. Margaery had been surprisingly easy to fall into friendship with, all those years ago. Working with her again afforded them an easy camaraderie, as though no time had passed at all, borne out of a simple dynamic: Margaery had decided Brienne was going to be her friend, and Brienne had not yet found a reason to disagree with that assertion. Margaery had done nothing but remain a loyal friend in all the years she’d known her. Even with Sansa Stark, a very young and striking woman from a royal family, Brienne had found some common ground in their love of historical romances and a sense of determination and justice that seemed to serve as the bedrock of their personalities.

But Asha was different, Brienne was fairly sure. Asha wore leather pants to work at a diner at six in the morning and could talk to anyone about anything with ease. She made jokes at the expense of both herself and others—and still most everyone laughed. Even Sandor would occasionally smile to himself at something she’d said when he thought no one was looking. Asha was exactly the sort of person Brienne had spent her girlhood afraid of. A woman who lived life on her own terms. The fact that someone like that continued to be so _nice_ to her scared the hell out of Brienne.

“I’ll just have a chip for the sim suite, thanks.”

Asha quirked an eyebrow and leaned away from the counter again. “Your boyfriend’s already got one booked. Told me to make sure you knew to join him when I saw you.” She winked suggestively.

Brienne’s jaw fell open slightly and a blush swept across her body like a crimson sunrise. “He isn’t my boyfriend.”

“But you knew exactly who I was talking about.”

Brienne muttered a response under her breath while Asha smirked knowingly and went back to her media reader.

She had barely turned the corner when the sounds of footsteps echoing in the relative quiet of the plaza caught her attention. She and Jaime dragged themselves downstairs at an ungodly hour, even for their fellow Uniformed Services crewmen. It was unusual for more than a handful of people to be stirring around so early.

Perhaps the last person she expected to see was Renly, jogging up to her in workout clothes of his own.

"Commander Tarth," he said with an easy smile when he reached her side. "Good morning, Ser."

"Please," she said with a huff. "It's too early for the formalities."

"Alright. Brienne, what a lovely morning we're having." His blue eyes twinkled, though his voice sounded rough. She'd never known Doctor Baratheon to be an early riser, and suspected he'd crawled out of bed specifically to catch her while no one else was around.

"Did you need something, Renly?"

"Can't I just pop by in the morning to say how nice it is to have you back safe and sound?"

He was smiling at her, an expression that would normally have been enough to heat the apples of Brienne's cheeks. He really was so very handsome, rakish in the way of a romance hero. But instead of blushing, she felt herself smiling back, just a little.

"Thank you, Renly. It's good to be back." She dipped her head, trying not to think again of the last time she’d seen him, his hands covered in someone else’s blood and looking terrified.

He nodded and shifted from one foot to the next nervously. "There is, perhaps a small reason I came looking for you."

That much was obvious. "Erm. Yes?"

He cast his eyes around and they landed determinedly on the door to the nearest sim suite. "Were you going running? I could let you make a mockery of me on the track."

"I already have a gym partner."

"Oh." Renly's eyes widened and his eyebrows shot up with comprehension. "_Oh_." And then he was smirking, slow and sly. "Well _done_, Tarth."

"Please stop." She hardly recognized her voice for how high-pitched it sounded crossing her lips. "I do not want to discuss this with you."

Renly's laugh was rich and genuine. It was a big part of what she'd always liked about him. "So there _is _something to discuss? The whole station has been talking about it—the way he just ran out there after you, the brave idiot.” His eyes shone. “You may be more amenable to this conversation than I worried you would be."

Brienne opened her mouth to ask what exactly he meant by that but before she could Renly blurted, "Lieutenant Commander Tyrell and I are dating."

Brienne's eyebrows shot up. She wasn't certain what she had expected him to say, but it hadn't been that. In the space of a few seconds, she found herself reframing every little moment she'd ever witnessed between them. A shared smile here, a touch to the waist or shoulder there. Tyrell's ferocity at protecting Renly—and specifically Renly, now that she considered it—anytime there had been a potential for danger. Loras was good at his job, a promising officer to be sure, but his particular devotion to Renly made more sense than Brienne had considered. Or perhaps—

She smiled. Perhaps she was just _happy_ for them. "I had no idea."

"I'll take that as a compliment to our professionalism."

"You'd better keep it that way."

Renly laughed. She'd known the man for years now, and while he'd always been one for jokes and laughter, Brienne wasn't sure she had ever seen him so _light_. The bitterness that she'd sometimes noticed at the corners of his mouth had evaporated and been replaced with a carefree tilt.

"I'm happy for you, Renly," she said softly, and found that she meant it. "You deserve this.”

His smile softened and he reached for her hand, squeezing it. “So do you, Brienne.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she only returned his smile, though it felt a little thin compared to his.

Renly chuckled at what must have been a comical look on her face and leaned in to give her a warm hug. When he pulled away he was smiling like he knew a secret that she didn’t.

"I really am glad to have you back in one piece. Martell said you came to see him yesterday. Seems the boy did a good enough job patching you back up."

"He did. You should give him more credit."

Renly only smiled and said his goodbyes then made his way over to where Asha was pretending not to stare. Brienne waved awkwardly toward her before she turned back in the direction she’d been heading.

When she entered the usual sim suite she shared with Jaime—and what a concept, to share a “usual” anything with Jaime Lannister—he was nowhere to be seen. She shrugged off the gym bag she’d brought, more out of routine than anything else. At some point in the intervening months, she’d learned to minimize her expectations for privacy in the suites. Jaime was always there now, and so she’d taken to arriving already dressed for the workout ahead.

Before she could familiarize herself with her surroundings, she heard Jaime’s voice somewhere just ahead calling out, “Hey!”

She cast her eyes around for him, between pine trees and out toward what she could see of a sandy beach where the sound waves crashing against the shoreline met her ears even though she could not see it.

She spotted him sitting high up in a tree and had to laugh. “Uh, hello.”

Jaime grinned back at her, all flashing teeth and dimples. “You were late today.” He swung himself down with the casual grace of a big cat, landing in a crouch in the sand before straightening out to dust himself off. The godsdamned lycra and tiny shorts had made a return, to Brienne’s distress.

She considered lying to him. She could say that there had been reports to file. That Stannis had sent an important message. That there had been a security issue she’d needed to oversee. But Jaime was peering closely at his recently injured hand and the sight of him was so overwhelmingly earnest that she knew she shouldn’t even try. He’d been so honest with her, after all.

“I didn’t seem to want to leave my bed this morning.” She tried for humorous indifference, but she knew it had fallen flat before he’d even looked at her.

“Brienne,” he said, using her first name deliberately with a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “That’s quite unlike you. Did you even bother to _schedule_ additional time in bed? Let me see your planner.”

Brienne shot him a sharp look, but she was biting back a smile in spite of the morning she’d been having. Jaime seemed to have that effect on her lately. “I’m sorry, Major, did you have something better to do?”

Jaime's smile seemed genuinely fond, all of the bright, sharp edges smoothed down to a gently glowing warmth. "I don't mind waiting for you, Commander." His voice was a deep and dangerous rumble that seemed to resonate from his chest directly into Brienne's, sending an unexpected flash of heat much lower.

There was something unsaid between them, hanging in the pine-scented air. Brienne had never been good at reading people, but she was certain she had picked up on some _thing _just out of reach. Asha’s words came back to her, unbidden, and her cheeks flared at the thought of the word _boyfriend_. Something she’d never had, and something Jaime Lannister would never and could never be.

Jaime's eyes flicked across Brienne's chest and neck and back up to her face again, following the path of her blush. His eyes on her definitely stoked something inside of her. Heat that had nothing to do with her embarrassment. She looked away quickly, and time seemed to rush to catch up with the slow-moving moment that they had been suspended in.

"Have you considered taking a day off? You could try sleeping in for a change."

Brienne shook her head and bent sideways at the waist in a deep stretch. "I sleep fine. And besides, we still have to sort through the rest of the documents you gathered from the Bolton base. There’s too much to do.”

Jaime's forehead creased as he frowned. "Who's helping you?"

"Oh." He continued to surprise her, this man who had slain his king to protect a planet. "Well, Miss Stark is our liaison to Winterfell, so her input would be valuable and I plan to meet with her later today. And we'll need Greyjoy to help with decryption..."

"You could ask me."

"You?"

"I'm here to command the troops on your station and believe it or not, I _do _have some experience in defense. Surely you could consult with me on this.”

Brienne bit her lip. She wished her interpersonal skills were even just marginally better. "A lot of people on this station still don't trust you."

Jaime took a step toward her, his eyes glittering in the patchy morning sun. She watched with a rapidly beating heart as he reached out a hand, the one he'd injured on Winterfell, and wrapped his long fingers loosely around her wrist. Brienne wondered if he could feel the drumbeat of her pulse under the press of his thumb.

"But you do."

Brienne’s jaw went slack and she stood stock-still. Jaime’s calloused thumb hummed briefly against her skin before he dropped her arm carefully back to her side. The gentle breeze rippling through the trees glided across the bare skin of her arms, making the loss of his touch all the more pronounced.

Still, it meant something to her. Jaime’s steadfast belief in her that she could not imagine how she had won. She’d only ever done her job. But the way he looked at her, it was as though he believed she had crafted the stars from her own hands and hung them in the sky herself. It didn’t make sense to her. Not from anyone, but especially not from Jaime.

Jaime cleared his throat. “You haven’t asked where we are.”

Brienne tilted her head up towards the canopy of trees they stood beneath, paying closer attention to their surroundings now. Tall, robust pines took up most of the space with other trees Brienne recognized as Manna ash and a very familiar species of hawthorn—

"Is this—?"

"Tarth," Jaime answered quickly, rocking up onto his tiptoes with a grin he couldn't quite suppress.

Brienne had no defenses for this; none of the walls around her heart were prepared to withstand such a gesture from such a man. Before she could consider what she was doing she'd closed the short distance between them and gathered a handful of his top into her fist, drawing him in. Her mouth pressed into his without hesitation, soft and grateful.

_I am here with you and you are here with me and I am so, so glad_, her lips said while her thoughts were at a stand-still.

If she’d allowed herself to think, she might have wondered at Jaime’s willingness to melt into her. It had hardly escaped her notice the way he’d looked at her on Winterfell, how he’d wrapped his body around hers in a way that wasn’t entirely for her body heat. But the returning press of his lips mirrored her own eagerness. His hand cradling her face and the rough pad of his thumb stroking across her cheek left no room for any other explanation. He wanted this as much as she did.

She pulled away for air and Jaime smiled and pressed his forehead to hers. His hand on her cheek swept across her face to tuck her hair behind her ear and his smile widened.

"I shouldn't ruin this by talking, should I?"

Brienne laughed quietly. "And yet."

His free hand found hers and she felt him interlace their fingers. "Did you still want to run? I was going to ask if perhaps you wanted to walk today instead. I know that isn’t quite as competitive as you’d prefer, but I’d be very interested in listening to you talk about Tarth."

Brienne stared down at their joined hands and her heart hammered in her chest. It seemed both too intimate and too casual all at once—far from professional either way. She had realized on Winterfell that she’d wanted Jaime for longer than she’d allowed herself to consider, but to act on that desire—without forethought or planning or so much as a conversation with him about it beforehand—this wasn’t how she’d planned to do this. She hadn’t _planned _to act on any of it at all.

And yet here was Jaime Lannister, staring at her with something that looked terrifyingly like _hope_ shining in his eyes, his lips wet and pink and his body warm against her own. Brienne had kissed a man before, but never for her own benefit. Never like this.

Brienne carefully unlinked their hands and stepped away from him, running a hand through her hair. She tried to ignore the sharp feelings of remorse when his face fell into a confused frown.

"Jaime." She at least bit back the urge to call him Major Lannister again. "I'm sorry, that was—that wasn’t appropriate at all.”

"Appropriate?" Jaime’s face darkened. "Do you think you're taking _advantage_? Of me?"

"I'm your commander."

"Don't let your ego run away with you, kid. You're the commander of this outpost, but unless I’ve just kissed Barristan Selmy, you're not my boss."

Brienne stood very still, listening to the light breeze rippling through the trees, the waves rolling without fail onto the beach. "We'll talk later, alright?"

Jaime’s chest rose and fell, slow and steady as though it was an effort for him to keep himself collected. His features softened and with them so did his voice. "Take your time, Brienne. But ... I would still like to hear about Tarth.”

Brienne could have chosen anything. Even in the short time they’d known one another, she trusted that Jaime would never try to choose anything for her. She chose to smile, if a little sadly.

“I would love to tell you all about it, I truly would. But I think for now I need to run.”

Jaime pulled his lip between his teeth, hesitant. “Do you need me to go?”

Brienne smirked, forcing them back into familiar territory. “Then whose ass would I kick? Renly’s? That would hardly be a fair fight.”

Jaime’s eyes narrowed briefly, as if he wasn’t sure how to take her before settling on levity. “It’s cute how sure you are that you’re gonna win.”

She chuckled. “You underestimate home turf advantage, Lannister.” With that Brienne took off, intent on sweating out all of the feelings she’d had over the course of the last week even while she knew deep down that that was a competition she had no chance of winning.


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the back as ever stood Jaime with his arms crossed over his red defense uniform, commanding the space he took up even without anyone else’s eyes upon him. His chin was tilted upward just slightly and his smile was warm. Pride. Brienne would know that look anywhere; it was as though his face had been carved to wear it. That he was wearing it for her made her feel as though something delicate had taken flight in her belly. Their eyes met only briefly before Brienne was ushered into her place and peppered with questions and treated to smiles as she never had been before._

It was the most peculiar thing.

When Brienne met with Sansa in her quarters to speak with her about the lack of progress she’d made in finding Bran, the first thing the younger woman did was throw her arms around Brienne and sob into her shoulder. Brienne stood rigid and uncertain, gingerly placing an awkward hand on Sansa’s arm.

“Don’t _ever_ do anything so _bloody foolish_ again,” Sansa said when she’d finally pulled away, smiling through tears.

Brienne smiled weakly, floundering for a response that could feel half as meaningful. Instead she filed away Sansa’s concern to think about later. Ushering Sansa into the little nook that served as an office, Brienne sat her down to break the news as gently as she could, carefully explaining that there was still much work to be done and so far their hands were empty.

Sansa sat silently afterward for several moments, smoothing her hands across the polished surface of Brienne’s desk. Brienne frowned, watching the contrast between Sansa’s ivory fingers along the dark desktop, made from some swirling, smoky material native to Winterfell. When she spoke again, her face was as hard and set as quartz, and Brienne thought she could see the daughter of a king—of a general.

“I was there when they killed my father, you know.” Sansa’s words carried the weight of a thousand stones, and each one seemed to have sunk to the pit of Brienne’s stomach. Sansa was watching her with keen, clear eyes. “I know Arya’s safe. I know our uncles will not allow anything to happen to her on Riverrun. I know it because … my father used to say that Stark blood runs deep, even now, after all these generations. He was going to tell us all the secrets of it one day. When we were older. Nan told us when we were children that the Starks came from Westeros Prime, but they followed the old gods and the old gods…” Sansa squinted as though she were trying to recall something she had nearly forgotten. “The old gods were from Winterfell. _This _Winterfell.” She shook her head and smiled a little for a moment, but she sobered quickly, taking Brienne’s hand. “I felt it when they killed my father, and I thought it was because I was there. But I felt it when Roose came for my brother, too. Bran’s still out there. I _know it_. No one believes me but… You do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Brienne said at once, firm and without hesitation. “Of course I do.”

Sansa reached out to hug her once more, and this time Brienne let herself lean into it just a little bit more. When they pulled away, Sansa said her goodbyes, thanked her for what she was doing, and Brienne was left in the silence with her thoughts.

Eager to get back to work, Brienne called the rest of the senior crew to the control room—and gods, what irony that was. She hadn’t fully appreciated how _young_ her crew truly was. Jaime’s hint to her, what felt so long ago now, drifted through her mind as she glanced around at the youthful faces in the control room. He’d laughed at her naivete and suggested in no uncertain terms that Admiral Baratheon had sent exactly who he had sent because he knew that they would fail. She couldn’t think about that just now.

She couldn’t, because everyone was clapping and she could feel her face beginning to blaze hot. She’d have to concentrate on steadying her breathing to keep from losing all of her carefully-maintained composure.

Renly was grinning in front of the central meeting table, standing a respectful distance from Loras Tyrell—who rarely smiled but seemed to have made an exception for her return. Margaery stood beside her brother with her hand over her mouth, but it did nothing to cover the look of sheer happiness and relief on her face. Theon Greyjoy stood a little distance away from everyone else, but he clapped just as hard as the others. Sansa was crying all over again.

In the back as ever stood Jaime with his arms crossed over his red defense uniform, commanding the space he took up even without anyone else’s eyes upon him. His chin was tilted upward just slightly and his smile was warm. _Pride_. Brienne would know that look anywhere; it was as though his face had been carved to wear it. That he was wearing it for _her_ made her feel as though something delicate had taken flight in her belly. Their eyes met only briefly before Brienne was ushered into her place and peppered with questions and treated to smiles as she never had been before.

Her day was indeed very _peculiar_.

They had missed her. They had worried and feared for her and now they were glad to have her back. It was more than she had ever experienced anywhere else since leaving home.

“Greyjoy was convinced you were dead,” Loras said with a laugh.

“I was _not_,” Theon mumbled, casting his eyes downward. He lifted them back up again. “I’m glad you’re not.”

Margaery waved a hand toward them, her eyes on Brienne, and the two men settled. The energy in the room was electric and everyone seemed eager in a way that they hadn’t been before. Perhaps it had just been another assignment to them before the last mission. They’d all nearly died for this now. They went around the table and back again discussing what little information they had and how to decode what they had found, argumentative at times but never shouting or belittling one another. In the end, Brienne stood and fidgeted nervously at the bun she wore at the nape of her neck. She pressed her fingertips into the solid surface of the table, grounding herself.

She glanced around the room, each pair of eyes looking expectantly up at her. This would have made her nervous not very long ago. But she felt as though some long-dormant part of her had awoken. Some bravery she'd forgotten she possessed. Her eyes landed last on Jaime's and he gave her a small, encouraging nod.

"Sergeant Shadrich Glen of Shady Glen. This was his third assignment. He had a sister at home. She’s thirteen. Sergeant Glen could be crass—” her eyes landed on Sansa, who looked unsure of how to feel, “—but he was brave. I don’t think anyone here could doubt that. Marine Corps, Space Corps—it doesn’t matter. He was one of us. And now he’s gone.” Brienne could feel her fingers trembling, the way her jaw wanted to do the same. She willed herself to remain strong. To keep her spine straight and her voice firm. “Don’t lose sight of what we’re doing here. We may not have all of the facts yet, but we _do_ know this is Ramsay Bolton, we know he had outside help, and we know our confusion is what he wants. We can keep this planet secure. Stay strong. Stay together.” Brienne tapped her fingers against the table and sighed heavily, tried to ignore how her voice shook when she spoke again. “That’s all.”

She turned and left before anyone could notice how tears had formed in her eyes, stepping out into the cool, cheerily painted corridor outside the control room. strode off before anyone could follow her, following the walkway without much thought for where she was going. She had been planning what to say since they’d been held captive by the Boltons, even when they hadn’t been quite certain they would make it out alive.

The twists in the corridor ended in a wide expanse of glass panels with metal railing running from one end to the other. Her feet led the way toward the railing and she collapsed onto it, allowing her elbows to hold her up. On the other side of the glass, Winterfell crowded most of the scene, eerie and silent. In the near distance, she could see the rocky, desolate Moon Cailin, dotted with lights from its terraformed colonies. Further out, she could just make out the enormous blue rings of Arryn Prime. It was a quiet, empty space that Brienne had meant to make more time to visit, but nothing had gone quite to plan from the day she’d set foot on _The Wall_. It was difficult not to imagine that some part of it wasn’t her fault. That she should be doing something differently. But _what_, in the absence of orders from Admiral Baratheon and the Alliance…

She gripped the railing and hung her head. Her stomach twisted, emotions she had been trying _so damned hard_ to hold at bay threatening to break free—

“Brienne?”

She straightened immediately, cursing herself for not hearing approaching footsteps. When she turned, Margaery was standing at the end of the corridor, her hand pressed to the wall uncertainly.

"You left in a hurry. We worried. _I_ was worried."

Brienne nodded and sniffled. When she turned back, she could see the first glints of the faraway sun beginning to touch the horizon over Winterfell. The beams wrapped slowly around the giant, icy planet in an embrace just warm enough to breathe life onto the surface. To keep the trees green in summer and the foxes content burrowed deep in their winter dens.

"I feel like I'm spinning my wheels, Margaery." She gripped the railing tightly and kept her eyes focused on the sights in front of her instead of Margaery slowly walking toward her.

"Like we should be doing more before it gets worse."

Margaery's hand was on her back, rubbing small, comforting circles. Even with the person she could consider her closest friend, Brienne still felt startled by another person’s touch. Having someone to soothe her was such a foreign feeling. But after a moment she relaxed; Margaery had never seemed to mind that Brienne needed time with affection and emotions.

"Have you asked for help?"

"Well, yes." She chewed her lip.

"There's a 'but' in there."

"I don't believe we are Admiral Baratheon's highest priority. I'm sure he's very busy—"

"_Brienne_. Either you're a priority or you're not. Have you received any assistance at all?" She took Brienne's hand and guided them back toward one of the sofas. "You can't be expected to do this alone. _No one_ would expect that."

"We received additional Marines."

"But that didn't come from Space Corps. That came from the Marine Corps. The admiral likely had little to nothing to do with that. He sent you out here and you deserve help from him, specifically."

Brienne sighed. "No, you're right. But he's either not receiving or not answering my messages, so I suppose first I'll have to see to that."

They were silent for a moment. Margaery wrapped her arm around Brienne's waist and she rested her head on her shoulder. "I'm glad you're alright. You're the best of us, you know."

Brienne was glad that in the darkness, Margaery could not see the crimson heat that overtook her face. As long as she’d known her, her friend had always said things like that to her. Building her up when no one else would. For a long time, she’d thought it was just something Margaery did for everyone. Then Brienne had met Davos, and out of all the men on the ship, she had been his chosen protege. He had always been so genuine, but Brienne had assumed it was a fatherly sort of pride. Perhaps even a bit of a blind spot for her. But then Jaime Lannister, of all people, had looked her in the eye time and time again and told her he believed in her. She couldn’t explain all three of them away.

“Margaery,” she whispered hesitantly. “I should maybe tell you something.”

The other woman lifted her head from Brienne’s shoulder. The faint light from the sunrise illuminated her face like smooth porcelain that Brienne couldn’t help but admire. “As a friend or … as a Space Corps counselor?”

Brienne hummed and picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her blue command uniform. “Both?”

Margaery quirked an eyebrow and a smile. “You have my attention.”

Brienne tilted her head back, staring up at the nondescript ceiling with a heavy sigh. The gallery lights were all off, and she found herself wondering if they’d ever been turned on. Perhaps at night someone would switch them on to clean the observation deck. Maybe she could make it a point sometime to find out.

“I kissed Major Lannister,” she said to the ceiling. She felt like her entire body might catch flame.

“Oh. Well. He _is_ an improvement to Hyle Hunt.”

Brienne groaned and covered her face with her hands, but Margaery was chuckling.

“Low blow, I’m sorry. Hunt was a jerk and he didn’t deserve you. Lannister’s … well, I have to admit we were all a little surprised when he went charging out there after you. But it _was_ the kind of thing in your novels, wasn’t it? Those Middle Westerosi historicals? The bickering Jedi knights?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Brienne mumbled, dropping her hands back to her lap and chancing a glance at her friend from beneath her lashes. Margaery’s face suggested she was barely containing her delight.

“Are you going to tell me, then, or will I have to drag it out of you?”

“It was…” Brienne shook her head, searching for the right words to describe the feeling of standing alone on the field, waiting to be taken captive by the Bolton men alone until Jaime had appeared at her side. How he’d cared for her. How he’d trusted a part of himself to her that he’d never trusted to another living soul. And then when they’d returned, he’d given her as much of a piece of _home_ to her as he could. It had only been a few days that they had spent together, but she felt like something fundamental had changed. Something big and important had solidified that she could not put into words to someone who had not lived it. Someone who was not Jaime himself.

“You’re looking rather starry-eyed, Brienne Tarth.” Margaery’s smile was sly and she elbowed her ribs playfully.

“I am _not_.”

“I’m happy for you.” She chuckled. Then, taking Brienne’s hand and looking her seriously in the eye, “This is good, right? No regrets?”

Brienne shrugged. “We work together. On a remote space station.”

“It’s one kiss. No one’s saying you have to get married.”

“_Gods_, Margaery, I know that. But what if it's … weird?"

"Brienne, listen to me." Margaery turned so that she was fully facing her, both their hands joined across her knees. "I know these things—men, relationships, trusting people in general—haven't come easily for you. But I've known you since we were eighteen years old, and I've never seen you like this. The way you were in the control room—the way you'd look to him when you were unsure. And he'd give you this cutesy little nod and you'd power through whatever you had to say. I don't know what went on with the two of you the last couple of weeks, but anyone with functioning eyeballs can see that it's bigger than just some space tour fling. And importantly—_most_ importantly—you fucking deserve it. After the way those boys on the _The Thorn_ treated you, you deserve a man who'll charge into battle for you. And if it doesn't work out, I'm certain he's old enough and you're mature enough to keep it civil. But Brienne—" Margaery's eyes shone bright with affection, "—I've seen the way that man looks at you. And I know what he sees, because it’s what I’ve always seen. This… this torch you carry for everyone around you. I've spent the entire ten years that I've known you trying to figure out how everyone we’ve ever met doesn't see it, too. How damned good you are. Lannister though? Lannister sees it.

"I'm not trying to tell you what to do. This is obviously your choice. But I don't think you should pass over someone who sees you the way you deserve to be seen just because it might not work out." Margaery bit her lip and searched Brienne's teary eyes intensely, like she wanted to say more, but before she could they were interrupted by the sound of footsteps reaching the opening of the gallery.

The two women turned their heads in unison to find Jaime standing awkwardly with his hands on his hips. He reached up and scratched at the back of his head. The sight of him ill at ease was such a rarity that Brienne couldn’t help but smile, something catching in her chest at the sight. She quickly swiped at her damp eyes.

“Well, this is awkward,” he said with a little laugh. “I’ll just go. Commander. Lieutenant.”

“No, no!” Margaery jumped up and Brienne had to suppress another groan as she watched her friend hurry over toward the first officer. “I was just going. Wouldn’t want you to miss the sunrise, Major.” She clapped a hand on Jaime’s bicep and glanced over her shoulder to wink at Brienne, who had to resist the urge to roll her eyes.

_This is so incredibly Margaery_, she thought. Brienne wouldn’t be surprised to learn that her friend had arranged for Jaime to accidentally find his way there, even though she was certain that couldn’t be the case this time.

When she’d gone, Jaime hovered in the doorway for a moment longer before finally voicing his apparent anxieties. “Are you _sure_ this is alright?”

Brienne chewed on that question. She'd kissed him without warning and he'd seemed … relieved? He had definitely smiled. He'd said he would wait for her. She could see Jaime—who he was and what made him tick—so much more clearly now. It was her own feelings she still needed to piece together.

“Do you think I wouldn’t tell you if it wasn’t?” she said, opting for levity.

Jaime smiled and clasped his hands behind his back as he walked carefully toward the sofa Brienne was still seated upon. “To be honest kid, I think if it wasn’t you’d delight in telling me off about it.”

Brienne shot him a look, but it only caused his face to soften. He sat down on the opposite end of the bench, staring out at the steadily brightening horizon across the immense white planet. Brienne tried, and mostly failed, not to watch the arch of light reflect in his eyes.

“I’ve never seen you here,” he said after a moment.

“Do you come here often?”

“Sure, when I can. It’s quiet.” His voice was quiet, barely a whisper, but his eyes were alive and vividly green, the distant sun rising in them like a springtime meadow. Brienne wondered what he was thinking of. Whether she crossed his mind in this room the way he so often crossed hers lately.

“I didn’t think Marines could appreciate space,” she remarked dryly.

“Don’t you stereotype me, Commander. I’ve seen you with a pistol. No space cadet should be able to shoot like that.”

“I’ve not been a cadet for years.”

“You look like a cadet to me.” He turned his head to grin at her then. The sunrise had given Margaery a warm glow, accentuating undeniable beauty. But cast upon Jaime’s face, already golden and impossibly handsome, it made him ethereal.

Brienne wanted to kiss him again. She was still working out what _else_ she wanted, but of that much at least she was certain: she very,_ very_ much wanted to kiss Jaime again. Their last kiss, their first and only kiss, had been over before she’d been able to fully appreciate the act itself. Before she'd been able to properly digest Jaime's reaction. But she did not regret it, and she certainly wanted to do it again.

She reached up and ran a hand through the tuft of blonde curls splayed across the top of his head. His eyes widened with surprise but he leaned into her touch. “You need to cut your hair,” she whispered with a grin.

“I know,” he whispered back, “but you’ve always liked my curls.”

Brienne snorted and pulled her fingers from his hair to shove his chest. “I _told_ you to get a haircut when we met.”

“_Not my boss_,” he sing-songed. His face was so close to her own that she could count each fleck of gold against the brilliant green of his smiling eyes. But he held there, patient. Letting her take the next move if she wanted.

_Nothing has changed_, she reminded herself. Margaery’s words were still fresh in her mind, the courage and hope those words had instilled in her still wrapped around her heart. Brienne knew she owed it to herself, and to Jaime, to keep a level head. To wait. _Nothing has changed_.

She kissed him anyway.

Her hand gripped his shoulder where she had shoved him, pulling him toward her and he let her lead, his eyes darting back and forth between her own. It was just a taste, just enough to be sure that it was truly _Jaime _that she wanted. His lips were just as soft as they had been on not-Tarth, his scent just as woodsy, his hand on her hip just as gentle and sure. Brienne’s heart accelerated in her chest as though it wanted to kick into hyperdrive, but her face did not flush and her hand on Jaime’s shoulder did not waiver. _Yes_, she thought as she pulled away just slightly, his breath warm against her lips, _this is right_.

Jaime’s face was unreadable, a question in his eyes she tried to meet with a smile. “You didn’t have to kiss me, Commander,” he said very seriously, “I’m still not cutting the curls.”

Brienne dropped her hand, but Jaime’s didn’t move from its place on her hip. “I honestly cannot stand you at all.”

He laughed, but there was still something nervous in the taut creases around his eyes. “Are you sure—is this what you wanted?”

“I’m sure that—” Brienne ran the palm of her hand across the rough fabric of her work pants. “I’m sure I like kissing you. And I think I would like to kiss you again sometime.” She _did_ flush at that, but Jaime only grinned, bright and entirely for her.

“I can arrange that,” he said, and when he leaned in he pressed a kiss to her burning cheek that made her feel like he might be just as eager for it as she felt.

They watched the sunrise together, Brienne’s head and heart both feeling full to bursting.

After a while, Jaime cleared his throat. "You were good in there."

She turned to look at him, but his eyes were searching space. "No little gems of wisdom or words of encouragement? Critique on how I can do better next time?" She spoke casually, as if his words did not mean as much to her as they truly did.

Jaime held her gaze, his face serious. "None."

"Does it…Does it get easier, though?"

"Leading? Sure. Especially for you. Those people love you. They know now what you'd sacrifice for them and I suspect they'd follow you anywhere. But losing someone?" Jaime's chest expanded with the weight of his sigh. "You learn to expect it, to compartmentalize it. But it doesn't get _easier_."

She nodded and swallowed around the lump suddenly burning in her throat, tears threatening her eyes for a second time that day.

Jaime's face tightened. "Brienne. Are you … alright?"

_Fuck_, she thought._ No._ She wanted to tell him all the ways in which she wasn't sure she was alright. She would start with the young man from Shady Glen and then explain her anxiety over the mission that she had not asked for in the first place and the rank she wore and the people depending upon her. She thought of Davos Seaworth and her father and brother. Of the Starks and the smallfolk in the villages. Her head was full of it all and she wanted to tell him, knew he would at least understand her troubles even if he couldn't help with all of them.

Instead, Brienne hung her head and she dropped her shoulders and the lump in her throat that refused to go away rose up and up until, before she knew it, tears were pouring from her eyes and sobs were wracking her entire body.

"Oh," she faintly registered Jaime saying. She should have felt weak; like the embodiment of the reason those men on _The Thorn _seemed to believe that women didn't belong in command. She should have felt vulnerable; Brienne hadn't properly cried in front of anyone since her father had held her and told her that her big brother was gone. She’d nearly let her guard down with Margaery and with the young Doctor Martell, but neither occasion had been right. She thought she would wait to be alone, but she found that the quiet observation deck with Jaime was near enough. He could have recoiled. Could have laughed at her. Could have been surprised that a woman as big and strong and driven as Brienne Tarth was capable of showing emotions.

But Jaime just wrapped an arm around her shoulder and—a little tentatively—pulled her toward him. He silently maneuvered their bodies until she was curled up on the seat beside him and her head was nestled in his lap. Jaime smoothed a hand over her hair, his thumb trailing down the back of her neck and pressing into her spine where he rubbed small, soothing circles until her sobs gave way stuttering gasps.

When at last Brienne’s tears subsided and she felt wrung out, the sun had finally crested over the blue and white sphere that was Winterfell. For someone down below, it would be a new day, perhaps bringing with it some measure of warmth and hope and good things to come. Maybe someone even looked up at their orbiting station and wished them well or counted on them.

Brienne sniffled and inhaled deeply. Jaime's hand, warm where it rested on her shoulder just inside of her shirt, squeezed gently.

"You should rest," he said levelly before she could protest.

"There's too much to do."

"And you've not been sleeping. Take a few minutes, the war will still be there when you wake up." He shifted slightly, and Brienne's drooping eyelids flitted open again with the awareness of where exactly her face was resting, her cheek pressed against the solid muscle of his upper thigh and her chin slotted between his legs.

"I shouldn't."

Jaime pressed his thumb into her shoulder, kneading. She closed her eyes indulgently. "I disagree, Commander."

Brienne's eyes closed again and she smiled dreamily in spite of herself. "You issue a lot of orders, Major," she mumbled sleepily, and she could feel the vibration of his answering chuckle against her ear, "for someone who _isn't_ my boss."

It could have been a dream, but if anyone had asked her later, Brienne would have sworn that the last thing she heard before drifting off to sleep was his low whisper. "It's not so much ordering as it is caring about you, Brienne.”

She wasn't sure how long she slept, only that when she awoke, Jaime's head was tilted back and he was snoring softly. The sun was a little yellow orb in the black canvas of space. And someone was talking, somewhere.

It took her a few tries to figure out where the voice was coming from before recognizing that her earpiece was on and someone was speaking into it. She sat up groggily and turned up the volume, shaking Jaime awake as she went.

"Commander Tarth, this is Lieutenant Tyrell. Commander Tarth, do you copy?"

Brienne glanced at Jaime who was frowning in confusion and adjusting his own comm. "Commander Tarth speaking, go ahead."

"Brienne, gods." Her stomach clenched. Loras sounded more like Margaery's brother, and less like the station’s officer of security. "I have Ramsay Bolton on the line. He wants to speak to you."

Brienne's veins ran as cold as ice. Some part of her had been expecting to hear those words since she'd arrived on the station, but actually having them in her ears was something else entirely. She swung her legs over the side of the bench and frowned back at Jaime.

When she stood, he reached up and squeezed her hand between his own. “Stay strong, stay together,” he reminded her, echoing her own words back to her.

Brienne nodded.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long delay between chapters! D: I won't make any promises about the next one, because I've learned my lesson. Maybe. Thank you to everyone still reading this fic. Your patience means more than you know <3


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know you’re as capable as they come and you certainly don’t _need_ my help, but—” Jaime squeezed her hand, “—just don't forget you won’t be in there alone.”

The walk back to the control room seemed much longer than the way from it had been. The artificial sunlight glowed pleasantly, but the only warmth Brienne could feel was Jaime’s hand laced through her own. She’d hoped to discuss with him in better detail what was _happening_ between them, what they should do about it at least on a professional level. She would, if they survived all of this. For now, she would accept his hand and his reassurance and the Others take anyone who questioned it.

The door to the control room loomed large in front of them before Brienne felt anywhere near ready for it. She’d never noticed before how ominous it seemed: tall, reinforced steel designed to keep out intruders in the event that the station was taken over. It had been constructed in peacetime, long before any thoughts of uprising and rebellion had been at the forefront of anyone’s concerns. Meant to be a source of comfort, the door instead stood between Brienne and Ramsay Bolton like the physical manifestation of her anxiety.

“I know you’re as capable as they come and you certainly don’t _need_ my help, but—” Jaime squeezed her hand, “—just don't forget you won’t be in there alone.”

Brienne released her lip where she hadn’t realized she’d been chewing it. His face was so damned _earnest_. So concerned. Had he always looked at her that way? Before they were captured, before the explosion? Was there something happening between them that she’d missed earlier? She didn’t have the time or energy for giving the thoughts the attention they deserved, but she couldn’t help but wonder.

“I know.” A knot of fear had coiled in her belly, but she set her jaw and stared him in the eye, determined not to betray her feelings. Jaime had become an open enough book for both of them. Still, she could not give him the rest of the truth. Not yet. “I _am_ glad you’re here, though.”

Jaime’s smile was amused, like she’d told a joke only he knew the punch line to. “I don’t just mean me, you know. I meant what I said earlier: this crew would follow you anywhere. Do you think a little video chat with this Bolton brat will change that?”

Brienne let herself laugh a little. He wouldn’t lie to her, not about this. _Not about anything_, a voice in the back of her mind suggested. “When did you become so—” she waved a hand toward him vaguely, “—heartfelt?”

Jaime made a face and hovered his hand over the button to open the door. “Disgusting, Tarth. Pull yourself together before you embarrass us both in front of our esteemed guest.”

Brienne smiled, and it carried her through to the control room.

The cheerful, warm mood from only a couple of hours earlier had dissipated completely, leaving behind a fidgeting Theon Greyjoy and Loras Tyrell, whose boyish face was clouded with anger. The room seemed smaller and darker than usual. It made Brienne’s chest constrict with a sudden wave of claustrophobia. She wanted to reach for Jaime’s hand again but she was determined to stand on her own, to not show weakness. He’d been by her side since day one and now he was… well, whatever he was, Jaime was certainly more than just a supportive team member. She could feel his presence at her back and that would be enough.

They took their seats along the table where Brienne had stood not long ago with misty eyes and a warm heart as the crew had welcomed her back. Brienne sat at the front, next to Greyjoy, while Jaime settled into the seat opposite her. The room was eerily silent.

“Commander,” Theon whispered, turning his head toward her just so. “What you’re about to hear—”

Brienne only had time to shoot the young communications officer a brief, puzzled look back at his urgent expression before the screen over the consoles flicked on and the grinning face of the wormy young man filled the room.

“Hell-_o_,” said Ramsay Bolton, drawing out the ‘o’ in a way he must have found comical because he laughed like he’d told a joke. But his face sobered so quickly that the transition made the hairs on the back of Brienne’s neck stand up, and Bolton cocked his head to the side. “Brienne Tarth.”

The seats in the control room were uncomfortable things, just as so much of the North Quadrant had proven to be. THe backs were too straight and too tall, the seats themselves too hard. Brienne had often wondered why anyone with the funds to construct a station of _The Wall_’s calibre would skimp on chairs. Now, with her spine as rigid as fabled Valyrian steel and staring down a man with deadly chaos in his eyes, Brienne thought she understood. Discomfort keeps you sharp and Ramsay Bolton was not someone to underestimate.

“Governor Bolton, is it?” Her words sounded much surer than she felt, as though every drop of confidence in her body had concentrated on her tongue. “You’ve been a difficult man to reach.”

He laughed again, a hollowed-out sound. “I hadn’t realized you’d been so desperate to speak with me. I’ll admit, I’ve had a little more fun than I thought I would, watching you lot think you’re in control of the situation.”

“What do you want?”

Bolton tilted his head again, like some sort of nightmarish dog. Brienne felt cold under his stare but it only made her want to sit up straighter, to jut her chin out into the air a little. He would not break her down. She was resolved.

But then his gaze flicked to Jaime.

“Jaime Lannister,” he said, ignoring Brienne’s question entirely.

Jaime leaned back in his chair and arched an elegant eyebrow. Brienne thought she could see beneath it now, his cool, disinterested exterior. She wondered if the whole persona was an act. Surely even someone as experienced and battleworn as Jaime couldn’t be so unaffected.

“I’m sorry,” he drawled, “have we met?”

“Such a funny little man.” She thought she saw Bolton’s eyes narrow briefly, betraying his annoyance. “Tell me Major, have you heard from your father lately?”

Brienne kept her head ducked low, watching for Jaime’s reaction from behind blonde lashes and gripping her thighs beneath the table. Something flashed behind his eyes at the mention of his father but the glint did not linger. The two men were playing some subtle game that Brienne was not quite privy to.

“I’ll be honest with you, Rams, we don’t exactly exchange postcards,” Jaime said with a careless shrug of one shoulder.

Bolton hummed thoughtfully, pursing his fat, glistening lips. “Perhaps you _should_.”

Jaime opened his mouth to respond, but Brienne didn’t like or trust the tight expression he was wearing so she cut across him. “Why don’t we discuss what you called to discuss?”

“What do you believe is going on here, Commander?” Bolton’s pale eyes were as sharp on Brienne’s skin as jagged ice. “Whatever your _knight in shining armor_ here has told you is a lie, surely you see that? You know why he’s here.”

“He’s here because he’s the best there is,” she asserted, feeling her cheeks growing hot. She believed it, too. That he was the best there was. Whether that was the true reason he’d been sent to _The Wall_ remained to be seen.

“The best there is. Tell me why the Alliance would give up _the best there is_ for a remote, unimportant operation such as this?”

Brienne caught sight of Jaime across from her. His brow was wrinkled, evidently as uncomfortable with the question as Brienne herself felt. She wasn’t used to that from him; she suspected that even at his most vulnerable Jaime could put on that mask of casual indifference. There was none of that now.

Ramsay hummed thoughtfully. It was an awful sound. “Perhaps—and I’m only guessing, here, you understand—perhaps it’s because he was planted here by his father.” He sat back in the high-backed seat he was in, his lips twisting into a wretched grin. “To assist me.”

“He wouldn’t.” Brienne’s hands shook as she planted them on the table to push herself up.

“So confident in the Kingslayer, Commander?”

“That’s enough.” Greyjoy stood next to her, his eyes wide and his chin wobbling just slightly. Brienne stared at him, but he would not meet her gaze.

“Hello, Theon. Something you'd like to say?” Ramsay looked at the young communications officer like a shadowcat might size up its prey. Brienne suspected that Bolton viewed them _all_ as his prey, that this was all just a pre-dinner game to him.

“Sweet of you to defend my honor, Greyjoy,” Jaime said with a smirk, tapping his fingers on the table as though bored. Her own heart was pounding.

The swarthy young man blinked several times, as though surprised by his own actions. "I'm not—no." He turned his attention back to Bolton and seemed to deflate. "There's nothing I want to say." He mumbled those last but as he sat back down he glanced once at Brienne with an expression that spoke volumes. 

"Unfortunate. What an _unfortunate_, disappointinglot you all are. I wonder which of you it will be to have to tell the Stark girl she'll never see her brother again? And their _poor_ uncles on Riverrun." Ramsay sucked his teeth dramatically.

"Do you have anything of substance you wanted to say?" Loras said through gritted teeth. His facade was nowhere near as good as Jaime's, not as practiced.

Bolton grinned, clearly gearing up to respond but the connection was cut abruptly and the screen went black.

"What the fuck—" Jaime started but he caught sight of Loras's face and sat back. "What did you notice?"

Loras narrowed golden-brown eyes toward him as Brienne watched. The air felt electric. So little had been said, but everything seemed to have changed.

"Your father. He's been supplying the rebellion. He funded the civil war?"

A muscle worked in Jaime's jaw and Brienne could have sworn he seemed a little paler than he'd been just an hour before. She hated it. Hated seeing him like this.

"Do you expect me to admit to it? Do you think I would even if I was helping him or knew anything about _any_ of this?"

Loras raised his eyebrows. "I don't think you had anything to do with it, Major. You've killed and almost been killed for the people on this station. There's no faking that."

Brienne's stomach swooped. The younger man's voice was strained, as though he'd had to pluck each word from somewhere deep inside him. Brienne wasn't sure she'd ever heard Loras openly compliment anyone, but the fact that it was Jaime Lannister, the fact that he looked and sounded so sincere—

For his part, Jaime seemed uncertain of what to say as well. Brienne frowned at him. "Are you alright?" she asked delicately.

Jaime inhaled heavily and stood up as well. His hands went to his hips. "I want to hear what Tyrell has to say."

"I don't _know_ anything," Loras said quickly. "But I feel pretty sure he doesn't have the king. He was checking if _we_ did."

Brienne and Jaime exchanged a look. "That seems pretty likely," she admitted and Jaime nodded. She hoped so. She hoped the boy was safe and far away from the Boltons.

"It does. But," his gaze dropped to Greyjoy, "sounds to me like there's more to this story we don't know about."

Theon stared at his hands on the table for what seemed an eternity. No one spoke. The machines of the control room hummed in the background until at last he lifted his head.

"Major Lannister isn't involved in any of this." He cleared his throat. "It's—it's me. I was."

Whatever had held Loras back came undone in the blink of an eye. Brienne worried for half a second that she might have to restrain both Jaime and Loras, judging by the identical looks of fury. But it was only Loras who dove forward, and it was Jaime who grabbed him across his chest from behind.

"_No_," she heard Jaime hiss, and Loras struggled against his grip.

While the two men grappled, Brienne stared. Greyjoy's eyes were wide and his face was pale but he did not move. He only continued to peer down at his hands. She thought he looked like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Like a man condemned. Her heart twisted. He'd just confessed to trying to sabotage their operation but some tucked-away part of Brienne couldn't help but pity him. 

"Why?" she said softly, low enough that only Theon could hear.

His face jerked up at the same moment Jaime and Loras stopped their grappling. She could see the instant that he pulled the mask back on, but his eyes were still desperate. Wild, even.

"Why did I admit it, or why did I do it?" He shrugged, tried to smile but the result was so strained it was unsettling.

"People are _dead_ because of you!" Loras shouted, but Jaime tugged hard on the arm he was holding and Loras instead went silent, his face so red it was almost purple.

"I didn't actually _do_ anything!"

"Then why admit to it? Why agree to go along with them at all?" Brienne said. She felt oddly calm in that moment, as though the uncertainty of how to feel and still making decisions in spite of it had become normal.

Theon was on his feet again—they all were—and he scraped a hand through his oiled-down hair. "He threatened Pyke. The Boltons... We lost there, trying to gain independence. He told me Pyke would be next after Winterfell and I could—I could help him or me and my family would go the way the Starks did." He leveled his gaze at her. "I like my head where it is, Commander. But I couldn't—I never wanted anyone to die. I can't let Lannister take the fall for this."

"You could've," Jaime said dryly. "I'm not entirely certain that you shouldn't have."

Brienne shot him a glare but Jaime only shrugged. "You know we have to hold you and investigate this. And I trust you'll be forthcoming about any additional information you may have."

"He barely told me anything. He hadn't really needed me yet—"

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Brienne said gently. "I know you understand why we have to do this."

She nodded toward Jaime and Loras, and Jaime released the other man with a wary expression.

"You'll escort Lieutenant Commander Greyjoy to the star cells, where he'll stay until we receive further guidance. Can you do that, Loras? _Without harming him_?"

Loras rubbed his arm where Jaime had gripped it and when he looked back at Brienne his face was more annoyance than anger. He nodded curtly and moved toward Greyjoy, pulling out the handcuffs that he kept as part of his uniform.

The smaller man did not resist as Loras led him away. Brienne didn't need to see the scene unfold. Her eyes were instead on Jaime, who watched the two men with a guarded expression.

"Are you alright?" she said levelly. The table was between them like an expansive gulf, but Jaime rested his fingertips upon its surface so Brienne did too, and it was almost enough to connect them anyway.

Jaime turned his head downward to where he drummed his fingers, the sound dull. "Yes." His pause was pregnant; just feet away Loras was checking Greyjoy's restraints in total silence. The hair on Brienne's arms stood up as though the air were electrified. "But I have to go."

He still wasn't looking at her, still just tapping the tabletop. "Go?" She blinked. "Jaime—"

He did look up then, and the raw hurt in his eyes was like a jolt directly to Brienne's chest. Whatever she was going to say died in her throat. 

"Brienne," he said, and her name sounded like a plea. "Tywin has my son."

She opened her mouth, closed it again. The right words for this situation were completely beyond her reach. She had no children, her brother was long gone, her father was a decent man with a quiet life… there was nothing in Brienne's life that she could compare to anything Jaime must be feeling.

"I'm sorry, Jaime." She meant it. She was sorry for all of it. For having assumed that she knew anything about him, for judging him exactly as the rest of the realm had, for the fact that the sort of family he deserved was so out of reach.

He shook his head, watched for a moment as Loras led a subdued Greyjoy out of the control room. "I should pack."

"But you've not been given leave," she said thickly. She wanted to kick herself for it before the words had even fully formed.

“Would you deny me?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then I need to go. I should leave at first light tomorrow.”

She could only stare, surprised. She'd never ask him to stay, but she also—she didn't want him to leave, either. Just the thought of having to do any of what was coming without him made her uneasy. He'd seen her through so much.

"I'm sorry," Jaime all but whispered, voice choked with an emotion she couldn't quite place. Sadness. Anger. Brienne wasn't sure.

She thought she saw his hand reach across the table, only for a second, as if maybe he wanted to be closer to her, too. But he drew away just as quickly and without another word, swept from the room.

Brienne was alone with only her fear, coursing through her veins as sure as the coldest river on the planet below. Her thoughts were just as muddled as stormy waters. _Theon Greyjoy had been assisting Ramsay_? He swore he had barely done anything, and Brienne wanted to believe him, but she knew better than to blindly trust anyone's word. That had been a hard-won lesson.

She hoped Jaime could see what had transpired the way she did. The way Loras had defended him. The way Theon would rather come clean than allow Jaime to be implicated in Tywin Lannister's schemes. Their world was changing rapidly, but she hoped that Jaime understood that as much as the crew respected her, they wanted to protect him, too.

The room was silent save for the occasional blip or beep from the control panels and monitors lining the walls. As always, the low, steady hum of the station’s gravitational field could still be heard in the central part of the station as it usually couldn't be elsewhere. On other days, at other times, the sound had been as peaceful as a lullaby, but just now it only made Brienne nauseous, eager to escape it.

But first she activated her comm and disseminated as much information as she could over channels she wasn't sure how much she should trust. When she'd said as much as she felt was safe and necessary, she stood in the silence again, willing herself not to let herself spiral.

Brienne inhaled, slow and deep, clearing her mind for the moment. _Stay strong, stay together_, she recalled. Before she could talk herself out of it, she crossed the length of the room and pushed open the door to the control room. A lot of things were wrong just now, but there was only one place she wanted to be. Only one person who could help her make sense of any of this.


End file.
